Theorem
The probability that your hand,
in sleep, would seek mine
was infinitely low.
And yet.
Your hand is here,
resting on my sternum
like a bird landed on a clod of earth
after a long migration.
My body is the ground of this
theorem, become fact.
I breathe so as not to frighten the balance.
So as not to wake the miracle
beating, gently, above my heart.
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