The Geometry of Breath

The stranger at the corner of the bar

lets go a perfect, silver-grey O.

It drifts beneath the ceiling like a star

that doesn't have a single place to go.

It holds its shape against the neon light,

a quiet circle in the crowded air.

I watch it navigate the heavy night

until the door is opened by the stair.

The air conditioner begins to hum

and shreds the ghost into a jagged blur.

I wait for the remaining smoke to come

to rest against the glass, just as we were.