The slabs are erased by gold leaf,

and, where there were cracks,

silver thread is stitched;

the widow is groundless,

pared,

riven into slivers,

adrift in reflection,

sky-drunk in the spill

of broken blue,

sheared in two.

 

She is beguiled

by the sweep of dreams

and echoes

of roaming souls

who whisper

in passing clouds.

But a slice of her is lost,

submerged

in ageless space,

and in every mirrored plate,

she sees only part.