Tuesday, February 24, 2015

(VI) Mosaics Within

Our mosaics
Fascinate me
Hidden stain glass pieces 
Intrigue me

Like our bones
When we’re afraid
The ways in which they shake.

Hands, for instance.
A mild turbulence.
Every knuckle 
A mountain
Overlapping plateaus 
Severe earthquakes
In an overly populated space.
Evacuation is
No such thing

Where blood is unable to flow, 
Cuticles will never grow.

Why don’t knuckles let go?

Shaking accumulates
Knuckles unable
To join rattling bones
Listen to their sounds
Of fusion

One day these bones will 
From being so 

Of our own mosaics.

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