He saw himself as coal, on its way to glass,
thinning through a pane of time. Scarlatti
danced window-thin under fingers, lively
and crystalline in its sharp velocity—
the velocity of intense, crystalline light—
morning’s illusion of clarity
in a breath’s elusiveness while mourning.
He was a coal seam jacketed in rock,
the surrounding strata seeming seamless
despite sun pouring through a window
in glittering arpeggios sharp as glass.
Caught in a pane, he was passing though pain,
under diamond-forming pressure. Saw himself
though a looking glass, face speckled with coal.
Line 1 taken from the poem “Days of Superman,” in the collection Mars Being Red.