The Glass Blower

At night he would walk on the edge of the world,
the stars grounding and refracting secrets.
He wondered which there were more of,
stars or grains of sand.

He scooped some sand into his palm,
used his index finger to thin it to gauze,
trying to touch every single grain
before funneling it into his pocket.

In his studio, the glass took on another life,
not like the shells he found, empty
and bereft of life, but translucent beings
with skin as smooth as a woman's.

He remembered when the shock of cold
and hardness surprised him.
Hadn't it been his breath moments earlier
caressing them into bloom.

This red one he sang to flower, this cobalt one
who snaked to river. How many women
wanted to feel his breath move across her own skin,
to feel him quietly blowing her open.