John A. Nieves

At the point of fracture, something gives
way to torque or impact or sheer crushing
force. It is like this with bones and stones
and mirrors. It is like this with ice and hull,
the crumple before the gushing. The ocean
is a weight that holds the surface of the earth
in place, that drags everything into its service.
Fracture, to split like a vowel under pressure
from the points of articulation, to rupture
like a well-known name in a strange accent.
A breach opening a new space, interstitial, hushed
in its cracking. Every rift will be filled, will
reharden. Every new definition born
of the splitting will swear to its wholeness.