I like drawings that are almost erased,
Mornings that you haven't quite broken into,
Drawings that recall hauntingly but never shout.
The black line rings -
A frame might know what your name contains,
But not upon which walls it reverberates.
Insanity from laughter or tears,
Walking the wire with a long pole,
Toe first, then heel.
Change almost misses our eyes,
Altered favorites, glances miss -
But the self that melts the ice cube stays here.
Glass can never be
As perfect and delicate
As an insect.
The ice cube begs
for the watch to
break the distance of its glass.