The Internal Geometry of the Yawn

It is not merely a theater for the lips,
nor a sob held taut between the lashes.
The yawn is a cathedral that unfolds,
a sudden fold, a wonder
of space the mind can barely grasp.

Discribing an architecture without stone,
an empty atrium, a temple expanding wide.
Where mute air finds its measure
and fatigue, unaware, unwinds and purges
in a breath that no one meets.

It is an ephemeral bridge between two banks of being,
a muscular equation of relief.
Its invisible curve, a will
that dissolves into the air, a brief shiver
of peace before time renews itself.