He comes back to the house, its unassuming frame.
What the windows collected remains:
some ruined crocuses, rust-dipped leaves. No flame.
One caught wind howling over dead-headed geraniums.
This is his face. These are his hands,
two bone-thin tea cups. This, his life.
With the dream-cleft dropped,
a return to becoming.
Considering the untamed eye reflected, asks
what’s still between us?
Over—the look of impenetrability.
Over—the immoveable shattered I.