The Secret Geometry of the Yawn

It opens a dome without sound,
an ephemeral temple in the throat.
Time stretches out, a slow flower
that disarticulates ancient sleep.

The jaw traces a vast arc,
a soft bridge toward the unknown.
For an instant, every contrast
melts into an empty breath.
It is then that the soul relaxes,
almost a sail offered to the wind.

Then it slides away, the form retreats,
a faint echo in the room.
It leaves a glimmer, an invisible lyre,
a moment of baseless surrender.
And the world returns, a known picture,
but for a breath the motion was elsewhere.