I wish you could invite me into your heart
to walk through all that gold
As I hold my rage
sharp like shears, ready
to prune your grief
That loss, it shattered you
reminiscent of your beloved,
crystal glass cups
patterns, crushed into the unrecognizable
Under the rubble
a chef d’oeuvre by the wicked
I wish I can help you look at the world again
in colors not absent of light
To count days that are not
that Tuesday, in November
To remember that the earth beneath you
is not all quicksand
