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,

the ground,

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?