treasures that buckle

a solander box of fore-tempered hearts is cracked with creases
the cracks are glowing with angel wings and southern songs
folk tunes manifest into portraits of God or fine poetry,
verse that refuses to sing, or bathe in your poor memory –
frightened triumphant vocals, octave higher reasoning digests
where we could not meet as equals, we part as strange gifts
God does not like the triviality of sharing these sung-out parts
still not stopping the stolid partway return of our cognate treasures