What art can we make 

from our wreckage,

Our astringent rubble? 

Pebbles have rattled loose 

from our ceiling 

under battering from 

an overhead storm—

they precipitate in shapes, 

hail in abstract form, 

configure in sharp lines 

on our living room floor. 

Debris, dislodged 

from our rooftop

and settled again 

at our feet in off-octagons.

Bewitching asymmetry, 

our destruction. 


Pebbles pose, 

and we pose, 

our shadows manipulate 

the lighting above our display, 

shade our angular spaces, 

smoothing the raised lines 

of the ceiling tile 

accrued by our sockless feet.