The pieces of this jigsaw puzzle
will form King Tut’s gold face,

but, at the moment, they are bits
of color strewn on the floor;

these moments of consciousness
have no jigsaw fit—heartbeat

of a swallow in flight, bobcat
prints across the Winsor Trail,

premonition that joy lurks inside
a match, uprooting sunflower stalks,

tipping an urn from a bridge
so that ashes form a cloud.

The pieces of a life stay pieces
at the end; no one restores papyrus

once it has erupted into flame;
but before agapanthus blooms,

before the body scorches, razes
consciousness, you have time

to puzzle, sway, lurch, binge,
skip, doodle, whine, incandesce.