I thought to call them faceted,
the jagged edges of aspiration,
and aren't they? One edge gives way
to dozens, fractured glass casting
futures on the floor. Not mine,
but there's a brightness to that,
a reflection of a more collected
arrangement, his hands and mine.
I see yours there, in the prismed light
spread between us, never still. Colors
caught in creases, a whole city, mapped
upon your palm. I don't need to read it
to know the names of all the streets
we've already walked, the numbers to
doors we haven't opened.
It's all green.
And I know what makes it grow.