eye of the beholder

the glass tiles, iron-work, a lattice of fireflies
imagination spun still-frame, animations in violent, 
desolate dreams.  unfolding in cinematic precision, 

you pressed lust into a sharp paper crane.  stabbed.  
blood, a crescent rose.  the vines and crossbars 
cracked.  each frame, a mirror of a jaundiced

moon, sick.  the windows wide, dark beyond.  violet
wildflowers in a coal pail.  icy crossbars, pressed 
to the face.  each streak in the night sky, shattered 

angelica, falling.

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