That game in which we make a steeple
of our fingers and open the doors to see

the people— What a marvel to think
part of the known world could telescope

into the space between one’s palms,
the colors of stained glass windows

prismed into specks smaller than grains
of sand. Look close and see everyone

we’ve ever known who’s passed away, walking
around in those museum halls: listening

to the guided tour, studying the dream-shapes
painted on the walls for clues to what they

might recall of the lives they had, before we
revised the ways in which we remember them.


In response to Via Negativa: Convolution.

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