Sequestrienne

Don't look at me

for answers. Who am I but

a sobriquet,

a teeth-grinder,

grinder of color,

and vanishing point?

There was a time

of middle distance, unforgettable,

a sort of lace-cut

flame-green filament

to ravish my

skin-tight eyes.

I take that back—

it was forgettable but not

entirely if you

consider my

heavenly bodies . . .

I loved them so.

Heaven's motes sift

to salt-white—paint is ground

to silence; and I,

I am bound, unquiet,

a shade of blue

in the studio.

If it isn't too late

let me waste one day away

from my history.

Let me see without

looking inside

at broken glass.