Lights   on    the    water,     the    effect    of    a    roiling   lake
refracting    light,       or    the    light    of    a    dozen    votives
flickering    their    reflections    in    a    soft    wind.     Because
the     window      is      broken     the     lights     all     roll      in
the      same      tint,     softly,      working      in      the      night
the     light    of     suns,       all    in    harmony    calling     holy,
holy,      holy.      A      smally      enormous      tint      of      light
assembles    me    in    its    midst,   with    a    halo    of    lights
all    around    my    center.   To    be    turned    to    the    front
is      to      be      turned      around,     and      everything      is
glass:      this      is      my      modest      geometry.     I      only
use       the       most       normal       of       magic,        I       see
everything           as          a          sort          of           breakage
I              inevitably                inherit,                and                I’ll
move                    everything                    around                    —
mastery               is                 all               around                me.