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| it sweeps by, or is swept--it depends where you are--by schools of light, loose, adrift in the empty aisles of the cosmos: this, their care--the artisans--their persistent reverence for error, mis-fit; fabulists of silica, water, what we are, glassware, charcoal, starlight only; forgers of green, translucent stones that are the structure of all question. Gloss of green on a stone--Cold waterfall, a ripple down the uneven globe of this tiny amphora, this ampoule for perfume scored by a comb in the molten bottle: fountain strands of sea-green jade and sea-light opal in sheaths of fire remelt, re-fuse to new luster in which bubbles shift and drops of vapor, sealed in glaze, at each angle catch light--catch light! That cry-- annihilation made, outbound forever till it hits your eye and ends, a green glow, all you see, extinguished starlight, starlight only. Focused by stone, cleaved, bruted, brilliant-cut. No stone like that exists |
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