Broken English

He speaks in broken English; It's interesting to see my language this way- Spread out like pieces of shattered ceramic, The edge of each word tossing off glints of meaning Like bits of light, illumination; a kaleidoscope Of light or sound dancing in the air before his lips... At times he seems embarrassed, pausing before he speaks, Like the boy who tipped over his mother's favorite vase- He knows how I love words- and scrambles to piece back Together the fragmented ideas, hoping the cracks might Be overlooked; the result of his efforts is often unconventional, And yet... impossibly lovely too... It's a picture puzzle of a lonely landscape rearranged into a flower It's a mosaic; the pieces don't have to fit to make the image radiant It's a kintsukuroi bowl, the language veined through with gilded passion, More beautiful for having been broken