As if the sky is made of glass
almost beautiful it falls,
the way tragedy is sometimes
beautiful in pictures.
Your face in the frame is still,
beyond the opalescent
dome of my heart chakra.
Each shimmering shard of glass
in my ornamental body represents
a memory for later extraction.
It is now that we must agree
to unclasp fingers.
Your chest bears a mark
and where my skin touches your skin, we are fearless.
But then what is behind the curtain?
I carry my heart in a bucket, and
you are lost where we join arms
as we make our way toward the mystical.
Return to the house tonight and tighten the buckles on your red shoes,
Wish to be where you are, not here on the road where the love you carry in your basket could be lost
in the cold corners of a tin heart.