Marbles roll across her cherry
table
late night. She upset the jar of Earth
azures, goldstones of Mars. Her dang-
ling fixture spotlights glass
worlds spin-
ning across the linen.
Wrapped
in middle
ofthenight aloneness, she jumped
when the
fridge hum kicked in and stirred up
her calm.
The smith melted silica for her;
from his panes
he twisted up spheres, sealing
their liquid spirits
inside. In the flame, storms struck shell to center,
emerald meadows grew under the
rain.
Their cases
hardened, imprisoned inner things
in protection as a
soul in the kitchen darkness scales
her skull to escape.
He molded thousands of flowers in
domes to save them
from themselves, to freeze beauty
in death’s silence.
Still
petals inside keep blooming in
their colors—spilled spirals
spread infinite arms, vortices
tunnel her core, spun as blood
ribbons swim crystal bubbles,
refusing that slow paralysis of
forgotten dead. And each unsocketed eye sees itself rained on
her wooden floor, losing itself
under her oven in the dusty calm.
