City of blue tile, figure in ceramics, where we reach out, grab for porcelain, but its too fragile to hold, and it shatters in our hands, in time the seasons will seal these shards into the slits that denote your wrists. death is the answer to calculations composed of motions that are the same and different and secret (secretly the same) a missing alphabet with a message for us: when people die they take a piece of us with them, and holes in clouds are minutes passing, rescind this line and sever all ties. the skyline unfolds into explanation that sometimes words give up and silently walk off the edge of the page and here the cry opens up and reveals the world inside, a crack in the porcelain, a crack in the porcelain, a crack in the porcelain. the silent line of skylit eyes show deaths up there shine more brightly than lives down here. try and live. live.