in the room of quartz

And in the room of quartz blooms


nothingness which is a cemetery of crows


each bearing a bright yellow something


in his beak      pallbearing the unknown


wings unfurling      petalled with dust and light


a rose opening to reveal a room and another


room and another within that.


It’s not a question of space but of time

and how the walls are polished by feathers

until transparent and faceted from within

by a beak’s chisel   by this smoky lapidarian.