Glass Partita

You grow tired of your kaleidoscope future. If you have to die, you choose this trapeze of three willingly. You will always be caught in the premeditation of cradle to atlas to glass casket. Mickelsen says this is the age of glass, and the latest: glass umbrella. No protection from sunrays, but you can see through rain and wind. You believe in light: favorite scimitar sun slices Angel Peak. You are an irrevocable diagnosis straddling the balance between having a presence and being a presence. Glass is always moving: amorphous state humming at a very slow rate. Last time, your tiny cells sung a diminuendo. In their place, an aria of pear blossoms. You must realize your name is a temporary hymn, but monastic, ritually repeated in constant hopes of infinitesimal graces. And when glass breaks, the cracks move at 3000 mph. Take it slow with me. If you have to live, filter our spectrum of fossil beds, erosion tiptoeing, braiding tulip phaeacantha. Touring the house, pay attention to how sun enters each room. Glass is known as the fourth state of matter. Your terror is approximate, my love will circle you. Prisms spend their entire lives bending the light.