The world falls between its cracks.
There is dust and separation,
muddy rain, a broken flute
among the stones, and scars
left by lightning.
What side is the beginning?
What side is the end?
The crack in my ceiling
comes and goes.
We fill it with putty,
cover it with paper.
It is a persistent fault,
grinning at my obsessive
desire for order,
a warning of life’s fragility,
things breaking.
My wife calls my attention to it,
as if I never noticed.
As if I were blind to wholeness,
would not notice if the universe
separated,
the sky were torn,
the stars speeding from each other
and the need to pick a side,
to call out farewell,
and say good-by to childhood,
the strength of youth,
to watch love
shatter in the abyss of its past.
My wife knows who she loves.
How I pout and moan
when the world breaks,
not accept what I can’t control,
reach inside the cracks
to bring the sides together,
like a heart that is broken,
and drowns in the gulf
of its separation.