I stood on the outskirts of the village,
a faint mantra skirting the moist breeze that glides
below the clouds pulled me forward.

Gathering myself, where the forest
becomes field, the only real truth lies in what happens next;
the vespers that gather over a sea that is willing,
shape-shifting with the moons fragile movement
in an instance when the opening door lets the whirlpool
of your eyes, hidden in their soft blinking, engulf me.

When you look into mine and I into yours,
finally free of the chains that bound me
to a ship that would only wade in the shallow harbor,
I can almost break the space that hides between us, the changing
landscape our bodies will recreate on soft cotton,
the dew that will cover us come morning.

We can run outside the mist, skirt the edges,
light a dark meadow and turn the sand below to glass.