Mosaic I

Angles, cracks, and gleamings
clamor to be laid—
by fingers, warm with blood,
tips tracing their tactile whispers—
by intuition,
in a rhythm
of dream language.


Windows—cruel, brilliant
wounds—riven into
light
by the merciless precision
of the stone cutter’s blade.


A bird’s delicate tracks, vanishing
into wet sand…
what else has been lost, in the slap
and rustle of weeping waves?

Angles, Cracks and Gleamings

Angles, Cracks and Gleamings

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