We made our eyes windowframes. Waited
for the light to bend corners. While
it inched through fine palm line cracks--
And we never noticed. Except
sometimes, the flashes held our eyes and shook them
with something close to love.
The avalanche of a spine.
Stained-glass leaves, burning alive.
Water on white wings ascending--
Blinked to death like gnats.
For what were we then,
you and I
but spiders fastened to our loneliness?