The Beauty of the World Does Not.

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.