Hollowed out of my heart,
old, beautiful words like opals,
like shimmering iris lakes,
lie mute, their spectrums lost . . .
Yearning over them, I am no longer young,
struck to elation and tall as spires,
having the blinding joy of harps
arrowing silver music in me. I am
no longer the chalice of white, fragile notes;
nevermore am I able to take verb and noun,
open their many amazements, and own
new worlds chiming opal nebulae!
p. 18
