83 To Constance
When some are breaking from the pressure of a pose
Into the fragments of the fallen glass,
You keep the strain disguised below the weightless flow,
Dancing upon the broken porcelain of smiles.
You are the silent needle with a sounding thread,
Following patterns on my open palms
To burst my lines in colors in the still wet paint
By your inexorable pricks of arms.
When tints are merging into streams across the space,
In the ascetic stinginess of notes,
You are the ruthless scissors with two blades of legs
Over your pattern of my joy and woe.