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.
