who only by moving can balance

Clarity

is not, after all, so very clear.
It flashes bright through fog, a beacon,
lighthouse, indistinguishable from sirens
there to lure you in.
     Inextinguishable.
It is not whole,
     nor ever was unbroken:
but jagged peaks, the glassy shards, the crystal
sharp
     call out to you. No words, of course:
but just a certain tightness, a very
     particular
           lightness
that arises
as of a sideways step, from smog to cleaner air, then
           back
     again
into the dark, the mist
of your uncertain heart, that beats, that aches
for something more than fractured will-o'-wisps--
for something kinder, safer, less absurd
than plucking shattered fruit from out the dark,
and sitting, bent, with tweezers and with glue
and blood and gut and sinew, until your back might break
until beneath the light of dawn you find
the work complete, the shining whole beneath your hands
made new: and, cradled in its arms,
                                   is only you.