White Frame // Crushed Beads
The clouds were so strange that day
spilt powder over duck-egg veneer
a clandestine pincer and loose, flaking bough.
the hour the clocks stopped,
and the sea, through fence and fig-grove
breathed one last heavy overture,
(and there was much waving, and there
was solemn prayer, and repeat)
the shadows moved as warning signs
over verdant emerald mesh.
There I looked in the mirror of a well,
and saw the butterflies preen,
too heavy with sun to lift my gaze
to see your smile break time for me,
the gulls stole,
it from you first.
Their sorry, bone-breaking cries,
a ghostly echo
of a spring revolution.