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.