Feste's Lute

The collapse,
once done,
spun glass
across our brow.

Quicksilver cascades
caressed her cheek.

In smoke and flame
fair faces play
through pools
of recognition
and retreat.

One is just
the same.

Neither needed
northern graces.
Identities rephrased.

Contorted resorts,
a gabled court—
baffles sate the blaze.

Solace for stair steps,
oak grown emphatic,
chimneys for the chaise.

Winds ascend toward
dark screen doors,
flues forsake the flame.