Prized like catastrophe,
A pendant on a grubby piece of string
Is a microcosm,
Suspended in a dazzling
Hollow of your chest.
Hunched
With the weight of it,
You summon duende
On a tatty guitar.
There’s witchcraft in your fingers.
How else could they find 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 took flight, persuasive
As a baby bird.
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,
A dusty trinket on loan.
When you finally show your hand,
I see the pendant’s not a timepiece,
Mosaic,
Or multifaceted stone-
It’s just a piece of glass,
Glossy as water.