In strange unison the stray pieces fall
no matter how you turn at keeping still
appearances. For those who’ve seen
the salt-stained isle, more pain than use.
Blurring as plaster and stucco could, cracking
time should cast no say, should sink no smiles.
Pinched tight as her voice feels bright
leavening her face and returning a melody
of mirrors, less right than the ebb-tide descending.
If I might speak without words and in another script
still her eyes moat off a silent world, unreachable.
I learned a little, enough, in one empty, helpless hour
of speech spilling forth, not meant for sharing.
But being there, spectator and guide, to hear,
know how the artist has rearranged and pocketed herself
behind a soft tattoo of nods, faint drip of elastic isles.