Light upon the broken’s brokenness
that jewels pretend in the starlit glass
this end of a long misunderstanding.
Imagine Sorrow’s breath manifest
in one dance of mist the eloquent
and meaningless flavor of a lie.
Turn the empty soil and seed it
with nothing and need, mistaken
for faith or the practice of an art.
This is the part where you turn
and say to the sky. Every player has
his tell. Say that, that every player
has his tell.