Broken Villanelle

O the ache—the light
          where your face
in memory waits.

          A song for what
cannot be named
          became everything

your face contains.
          A song for what
cannot be named

          like light dissolves
into a blue pulse

          and soaks the page.
Your face in memory

          became everything
the page contains.

          O the ache—the page

that won't bend to song
          and shreds to memory.

Your eyes tangle
          the margins.