I hold before me a smooth stone attached with wax

to the end of a stick     a milky blue-gray translucent

sheen     I study the opalite with controlled breaths

and half-open eyes     looking for what is hidden within

the only light in the room a burning wick on

the windowsill     no angle to share its light

with the gem     no chance of a flicker sneaking in

and yet there is something there     a spark of yellow-

orange flame     it flutters in that great storm

lightning in a marble that holds all of this space

this candle and air     the trees and mud and marigolds

outside     the geese flying past     the children rolling

around on the carpet overhead     the electromagnetic

spectrum     the gravity     the astrological panoply

all here in my hand swimming in a cloud

of octarine currents     I see orange winks in a language

I have only began to study     I see an orange outline

of my own face floating in that primordial stew

rising like the earth’s blood into new peaks and islands

out of ash and smoke I see myself reborn     screaming

like a falcon     not pure but closer     ever closer