Stones in Cribs of Glass

While skimming stones in cribs
of glass the beatific angel fell
through the cracks like Alice
in a tale of yore with busted
wings only fit to fluttering
on the downward spiral and
the only sound left was that of
one hand clapping can I get an
encore like the Brooklyn boi
or a screen door slamming at
the last beach house standing
in dunes of mind after the final
N’oreaster and the fences facing
have been swept to sea and the
final refugee remains in light if
not exile beyond the vanishing
point on that latitude beneath the
Tropic of Cancer where Henry
Miller’s mind was blown as if a
lost Conquistador hurling horses
over board along with immaculate
beats and rhymes that remain a
token of thoughts unspoken while
skimming stones in cribs of glass