When twelve stars hang
as spindles from the veil, and
sun and moon rise as one
the astronomer’s careful sight
will be dismantled.
So too for oil artist’s eye
for color —
symmetry, a tiger chasing its own
striped tail, or witness to tragedy
which permeated one’s own mind.
Togetherness too, lost but at once
fulfilled
Chasing a means is shattered as its glass crumbles back to sand,
its memory too, forgotten — its shape, its form, a mystery to
no one.
A rope around my waist, tied
to that which lays beyond the
veil where these twelve now hang:
Torn, frayed, repaired endlessly and
almost a string at many times.
it is my rope.
