I.

memories tips
of dry paintbrushes
scraping canvas
saturated with constellations,
faint shapes remembered,
bone smiles, glazed eyes,
span of sunlight, eight
long minutes away

II.

a chewed-out lighter
flickers in my hand.
tiny fragments of a broken
windshield from a wayward
stone compile into diamond
dust, a fractional mountaintop
glistening at dusk

III.

we dug all of the glimmer out of dirt,
filled paper bags with crystals.
there was no laughter,
there was no silence.
everything happens now
and never again

(originally published in Gyroscope Review, Winter 2016)