At last, when the winds came,

the pottery lay broken upon

stone. Branches snapped

in syncopation. Waterfowl

scurried for cover. The sun dozed.

Your dress billowed like a robe

of minuscule shells, casting back

the glower of clouds. On the heel

of your hand, I read the calligraphy

of time. Veins pulsed, incognito.

Aphorisms of love spilled beneath

our feet. Turn right, turn left, turn

inward toward the light, only to sully

the forms of seeing, only to sigh for

respites from respiration. Lungs deflate.

The dog lunged toward us, laughing

at the lightness of being. The will wilts

into smoke, vapors spill into sky, sky

swirls into sand, sand fills hourglasses

like rain. In shadow, moments vanish.

Fires growl on the hills, scorched in acres

of sorrow. How the weak wither in the conqueror’s

gaze. How fine the seeds of contemplation,

how vast the canvas of colors that bleed

to the edge of desire. Eyes shutter in gloom.

I mourn the loss of your reckless dance, snaking

toward the crater. Embers shimmer like gems,

steam drenches strands of your hair, flames lick

the side of your face. Death delivers no clarity. Dreams

conjure grace. Winds lasso days. Pots reassemble.

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