You are immaculate, polished, pure cobblestone hands.
A bird on the wing,
on the verge of everything.
Glistening windows that
hair, pouring out the salty seawater; and yet trying to understand is metal chains, you and I clanking against the back door.
Mother calls out, making sound, but you've taken love again,
rushing in time, moving in the patterns of vision and light. Look back? No, never.
Inch by inch, yard by yard, you steal; a crime. A criminal. Thief.
Red blossom of dripping pigment running
through my mind.