Was it the idea of separation, the...

Was it the idea of separation,
the way the onyx grains hung
on like a useless chandelier's
teardrop, glass reflections
of your exiled life in Miami?

Was it for what cause dull the knives
had become, or the yielding
music from a neighbor's yard,
a year in which the downpours
drown your tomato crop?

Was it the pale golden of flesh
that reminded you of a woman's
breasts you had one time touched,
cupped in your hand like a glass
pitcher, warm to the touch, supple?

Was it the hard rind that obstructs
so much damage across the years,
like these scars from falling not upon
rooftops where you worked