Details were cast in dove-

       tails,       in windows. A

           wing is confined without

shadow open for electric

eyes.    Even so the square

invites a pattern,     a tile

on the floor.

Count them as you

wash the life out of

meaning      in the tile.

       An eclectic salvation

is the detail of small

round things.     Mercy floats

through the dove,    more than god

suffuses the tongue.

The craft of the hand    bottle-

      blue in

the ocean   handmade tile,

a handmaid makes it.   In square

spaces without exits,        you enter.


Mary Kasimor