by Stephen S. Power
Before the molten glass begins to cool,
he brings the blowpipe to his lips.
Its warmth reminds him of a girl he knew
for one short night and one enduring kiss.
Her lips blew into him the memory
of countless years they would not share,
of nights apart and missing mutually,
of days without the smell of her soft hair.
Her stirring breath he gives now to the glass.
He blows it out as she his heart,
stretching the glass so thin it nears collapse,
but flares more brightly for it, then grows hard.
The glass could be reheated, though,
unlike his heart, frozen for her alone.