The humid tendril of your breathing.

from a letter dated april 2000, from my Mister, to me, this is the poem mentioned in the previous post when we were at the unraveling ends of other entanglements:

I was on the train the other day and saw this poem, the CTA dedicates a certain amount of advert space to culture --
still shocked by it occasionally, the thought of a corporation forgoing the
revenue for art's sake.... This made me think of you, like, instantly. I
tried to get all the punctuation right.......:

"Only your plastic nightlight dusts its pink
on the backs and undersides of things; your mother,
head resting on the nightside of one arm,
floats a hand above your cradle

to feel the humid tendril of your breathing.
There is space between me, I know,
and you. I hang above you like a planet --
you're a planet, too. One planet loves the other."

--Anne Winters