between the spidery cracks of a broken
mirror I search for pieces of you.

in this dark room of echoes
and paper
            clips, I fear I am lost
despite the timid spindles of light that
     ghost their way
through the gaps. they dance in fractal
cobwebs on the wooden boards, distracting me
from the emptiness I hold--like a dime--between
               my thumb and forefinger.

am I unique? fear not, she says, for
no one breathes pine needles the way you do and
no one bleeds stars the way you do and
no one, no one whispers of scarlet mornings
the way you do.

but what, then, does it mean
to be here? is it your voice
dancing in my dream last night? is it
the way our fingertips speak of
quartz, of ink? is it the icicle
antlers we planted this morning? is
it the soft scratch of birch bark? of
outside? is it the emptiness
that defines us?

all of this and more: I cherish
these sunlit midnights,
the memories of broken
storm.

how still the silent water greets the night
a gentle muffled splashing at its shores
reflects a moon that quietly implores
the lake to join her in her lonely flight.

how smooth the ripples gleaming silver light
a path that ghosts away with splendid dawn
a thousand fireflies dancing upon
the frozen highway shining in the night.

and to the sun that yawns across the east
no silver light falls over misty lakes
no evidence of midnight dreams, at least

              (Only the moon, the moon
                                          remembers all.)

I take to a boil
the creamy consistency
of christmases gone by

and hang out
the lights of
stirred recollections.

I set a table,
a feast to share,
those who won't show
outnumber the presents.

I take a place
within the play,
rehearsing the blurring
of me. I sit amongst

those who won't show.

It rains.
A truffled scent
glitters
in dead leaves,
naked trees.
Transudation
into the depths
of the night.