point

gone, remembered incompletely

like the reflection

on a broken window

seems cold, so pointed

yet invalid, immovable

and already

past the point where none

can be re-placed

by shimmery rectangles

fit in frames, the shards

go un-swept

on a rug-less plane

drawing

no blood, only breath

brittle as the glass.

sometimes those

disconnected pieces

shine most bright

like you should put one

in your pocket to keep.

but that's dangerous

and we all know it

those who don't

score themselves on the breaking

of it all.

music, if pieces all hung

suspended, wind chimes

fractile figures, spinning

weights and measures

from other angles

galaxies