The Poem Writes Itself

by Iris Rifkin-Gainer

Now, time was the jewel
drenched with words
in the pearly morning light

Each perfect frame
turning on a dime
in your bones

Shrinking from
the job at hand I
fathoming the shape of space
decline

Each perfect frame
breached with words
burning without rhyme

In my bones
fathoming the shape
shouldering the crest
of time