Summer-esque Nights

Our hands phased through fallen clouds at morning.
For whatever reason that the mountains cast them down to wander as restless spirits,
their inquisition interred an epoché to the ground.
   
At a drop of the flying kettle,
once the mountains repent their fog,
the concrete, panting from the trees' early calisthenics,
releases beside invasive herbs
low pressure flurries of sweated dew.
 
And breathing in,
now that there are no more clouds fuming from an insulated earth,
the air fluffs along the tongue —
a dente crisp of the moon —
and oscillates through the film of the eyes
to tears we wouldn't have
except for the transient pores of fortississimo cadence
with not an instrument uttered.