Eyes, the jay and the veins in open palm:
A sapphire matrix, an empty jar, the thrum
Of a guitar: The sound of love, the ruptured
Glass on the marble floor, the desire to run:
The spinning wings of the iridescent starling,
Runoff during the hard rain: A dovetailed
Drawer, the pruned rosebush, an excellent
Answer to my longing innuendos: Am I making
Myself clear? Now, when the sunlight slants
From its millions of miles just so through
The panes of my words, I can announce
At last all things connect in the equinox.
