Prismed Light

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.