Water settles in the cracks,
draws in the chill and turns
a ratchet by degree.
Grandeur like wise
drenches, percolates, seeps
your clefts, your tracery--
absorbing longing-- foments
a slurry, ferments accelerant
heat without spark or hurry--
so the same, this opposite:
hoarding in all the heat you have not,
proving the full minuscule line that reads
a swift though circuitous diameter,
your rough hewn symmetry-- approximated and
distracted, the very periphery of a crack between the worlds.
That also other, appearing other wise--
cracks and splinters, sheds skree--
sharded, bouldered, cold cloven--
fine lines, finely fingered, found empty, wet and nothing;
the femur-cold of the world aching space deep down
bound to be not one thing at all--
it cleaves.
Night still, heart poised, posed, perhaps-- a pulse before
and after that animate gap, going on and on until--
warmth not whether, echo not end, beauty not bemusement--
light spreads the horizon, casts a crisp sundial shaft;
its fire finds a foundling fissure, so a single line solves
your twisted conundrum, heat having halves whole--
it does not break your heart.