I watched when the wind tickled the proud chin
of the penstemon; it arced upwards, leant
toward the low sun. When the wind’s current
ruptured the fairies, we watched from within
the circulating eye of the cyclone,
those spinning shooting stars of white cotton,
as they ascended, or descended on
long grass, bare stomachs, the surface of wine.
One landed in your hair which I captured,
combing it out with my fingers and en-
tombing it in clasped palms, only for you
to take my hands, saying ‘Make a wish, love’
as you prised them apart and blew the fruit
into the air, so my wish may come true.
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