My father holds a panel of glass
between us: we are both bathed blue.
Wordlessly, we let the light pass
through. Where blade scores, glass breaks true.
Cut pieces are placed side by side.
Burnished, their edges touch through foil
and lead. Coils of thin smoke divide
the air above us. From such has come cinquefoil
and rose windows. The scene appears: a boat,
teal, on aqua ocean. Sails billow on air
unseen; waves move on invisible current. Remote,
cold, glossy, the boat prepares to go nowhere.
Silently the silver-soldered sea is caged.
Mirage of glass as water, the camouflage is waged.
—Valerie Wohlfeld
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