City of blue tile.
Figure in Ceramics.
Where we reach out.
Grab for Porcelain.
But it's 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 secret and different (secretly the same).
A missing alphabet with a message for us.
When people die.
They leave a piece of us with them.
And holes in clouds are minutes passing.
Rescind this line and several ties.
The skyline unfolds into explanation.
That sometimes words give up.
And silently walk off the edge the edge of the page.
And here the cry opens up and reveals the word inside.
The crack in the porcelain.
The silent line of sky-lit eyes show.
Death up there shine more brightly than lives down here.
Switch to Russian 
