Prized like catastrophe,

A pendant on a grubby piece of string

Is a microcosm,

Suspended in a dazzling

Hollow of your chest.


With the weight of it,

You summon duende

On a tatty guitar.


There’s witchcraft in your fingers.



As a baby bird’s claw,

They found the world by accident,

Discarded on the top floor

Of a junk shop somewhere.


Evading stooped men

Who scuttled from their reflection,

And women who once hoarded curious,

You pocketed the cosmos

And took flight.


Even your conceits have wings:

A moth and all its implications

Does your work for you, leaving hours

To conjure the universe from a fistful of sand.


Sleek-eared, envy-eyed,

You’re a shadow in search of light,

Eventually finding out

Even a dusty trinket’s on loan.


When you finally show your hand,

I see the pendant’s not a timepiece,


Or multifaceted stone-

It’s just a piece of glass,

Glossy as water.