You have beautiful hair. A flag full of light. Sweatered in soft candor, you are chauffeured down the oak lined campus, hands at the door handles. Random particles show you their motion, space slippery as zippers.
Time lifts like a curtain.
Your grief is muffled as smoke in a flue. You, who think in pictures, say light rays curve and come again, returning like a model train. With wiry hair waiting to be asked a personal history, you wait the way thunder hangs in the sky, your face pushed together with wrinkles and overwhelming brows. You bend up from the earth, raising your head to black holes. Your violin tosses into the sky several thousand notes and coming from a far galaxy light shines at its best collecting in dimensions like confusion carried to the extreme.