Maybe it is because of the fog
that I caress you,
because all around me are fog,
dissolved shapes, things lacking
precision or definition,
things that turn into some vague
something without dimension.
I caress you, coin.
Nightfall in December
and you here in my hand, you,
precisely contoured, you, hard
resistant existence
with your body of fine silver.
Coin
with a number that cannot be conquered
by doubt or by fog
and with a face
that will never doubt,
face of an ancient queen, looking at me.