There was a windmill in your dream.
Was it that or your breath?
A spiral caress
from the feathered net as you spoke.
A blithe breeze
to coax the girth of my thoughts,
that magnify the moon
and stimulate its craters.
For night stretches matter
without diluting its liquor
and cures its culture
not corrupting the color.
Winter never minds waiting there
for summer to abandon its care.
To stall its sweat,
slice the air and drop its shears.
Stationary at the shoulder till
the swipe and sudden sheen
that turns chlorophyll to chrome,
clay impersonating greenery.
The season falls soundlessly
steaming milk congeals,
tiny Nile, inundated with mirrors.
But I knew the deal, and how
the light was bound to catch you.
You stirred silver in your skin
pores perspire constellations,
you arranged as superstition
and wizened utensils.
If the egg falls
before I can strip all adornment off you
and let time ebb
at the mercury
that entreats me to touch you.
Do I drain the tealeaves from the rain
if isn't in our blood?
Does it strengthen with bitterness,
biscuits of silt and sawdust?