Words From the Fragile Spire

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The bicycle-maker left a blue stain

of cobalt upon the wooden ceiling

as he conceded his remaining air.

The hand of the dead man fell

to his side as the walls protected

him from the dirt he lived beneath.

If all this came from Pangaea, imagine

what will come when the islands

further part and uncover hidden seas.

It would be happenstance if they returned

to unity as if their rotation 'round

the circle reached the starting point.

Our savior from a space beyond

this jigsaw spent his years in solitude

perfecting such circles' frame and form.

He sleeps now on the street of angels

where our posthumous monuments lie,

yet he remains controller of his course.

The puzzle pieces fade to reveal a star,

a son of bygone suns, sunken in a sea

of ores concealing it within the core.

Chunks of clouds from calving glaciers

high on Anchorage mountains tumble

to the surface to expose the skylights.

From heavenward holes of icy cold,

cascading waves of lunar beams shine

through to the rusted handprint of blue.

The onlooker quickly writes the operetta,

which just as quickly meets its end;

a title-less story of a spontaneity of thought.