Someone brushes past my veins
and the furrow opens between flower and lip.
in a column of love and nightingales;
its blue helmet, lacustrine, wipes the dawn,
fog descends through its skin
and brushes of wounded feather and dawn flee.
And before being,
for the coming arrival of a planet,
calm of submerged brilliance,
the night is made of air and a darkened stalk.