Five Seconds

Your thumb
rubs and pushes
a persistent stroke
a question mark
further inflaming
flushed skin
and pulsing bone
stroking
as if to remove a smudge
a bruise
the sooty result
of days on the lam
the oil from your palm
breaking the surface
dissolving this film
creating
a window
a new view
a switch-up in the no-action
sun-filtered
as deep as I float
down here
off-kilter
amidst
the mournful eyes
of lonely sirens
combing the past tense grasses
smiles turning inward as
the air from your lungs
breaks
the surface
indeed.