things break—
(always)—the weight of
air bends glass
the soft touch of
a hand can ruin
the threadbare lace of time.

see:
the bridge collapses
not from thunder but from
a whispered wave;
& leaves
never fall without breaking
into rain.

even stars crackle—
embers of light split
across the Architect's canvas,
threadbare constellations
that no longer
hold.

but perhaps
(it is written
in the marrow of creation)
that breaking
is not ruin
but a turning:

this shatter is the song
of a world remade,
of a sky that bleeds
its gold into
the earth.

(even the great
Architect, it seems,
lets things fall)
so that
we may learn
to build.