Your breath hung heavy between us,
rapid and dense
As your hands traversed
the fatal land of thousand songs.

And upon the river,
the stars descend and inquire about
the beginning of equinox
and the stretch of the sea.

Because in those hands consuming me,
I found all the certainties
needed by the hesitating days
and all retreating worlds.

Because if poetry has a face,
I found it in your palm
closing on my chest
like the wings of elusive butterflies.