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There are crystals lining the floor,
a mirage of facet upon facet of light blue.
There is a system behind change,
a little hand that chooses indiscriminately –
this bud must shrivel, but this tile must shine,
under the influence of spilled water.
On the ceiling the floor reflects,
turning and twisting the room,
shaping the mold even as the substance cools.
Wall after wall that does not move, but shivers still,
and the thousand houses that hold trapped minds.
I clutch the hammer that built my prison,
I held the flask that let loose the antidote,
I am the poison that corrupts the bone.
Oh, to be both the fortune and the loss,
to be the kitchen made wet by stumbling;
but to be also the shards of glass,
cracked by the hand even before the fall,
and the water spilled, which, with no control,
chose grace in landing.
In landing now, I see the just choose spillage,
like a jury who without fact must condemn their convict,
and crack the beaker that held the formula.
Spilled as now I am, there is no conformity to accept.
On the floor, one is one's own captain –
are you held by, or holding now, the diamonds of the eye?