While we argue what harm is

the season of butterflies passes

The wineglasses
swing in the humid
late-evening heat,
hanging as they are 
from their broad 
bases slotted into 
the wooden rack
mounted over the bar.

One solitary pair 
of sparkling bowls
sculls prisms in 
tandem—silent and 
never touching—
as the romance of banana 
leaves, rotting bridges, and 
diesel drifts over the half 
walls of the dim cafe where
I am sinking 
into a sofa 
alone.

I watch them wavering
for an hour, watch my 
own glass fill and 
empty twice.

Each time the glasses swing
and do not touch, do not break,
my frail and miraculous 
heart does.