Into the palm of a hand
like marks of saints
the final piece from something broken years
ago and left to hide in dirt
tangled in roots like legs in sheets
after a night of running in dreams.
The flesh reaches down
and accepts it in
like an old lover returning to a bed
and their imprinted shape has always
been there waiting to take them back
and it is a tiny crystal
Between palm lines
and waiting to scar so that
one day a fortune can be read there
and it will be told that it was
this moment when the skin diverged
to weep blood which is what
made everything change.
Then later when turned to ash
or dust or dirt
there will be the glass
to be taken home.