There lingers a tektite statue
Of an unlikely angel
On the stained glass nightstand.
She knows how easily worlds collide.
Her parts were gathered
From the strewnfield
In the seventies.
Her halo is the perfect ablation
Of molten glass,
Wings of shatter cone,
Arms, hydrothermal selenite,
Eyes, carved of shocked basement,
Gown, impact breccia.
Her lips and hands
Are almost imperceptibly darkened
With the faint green of breccia-suevite.
The scientist in me understands.
Still, I need to know,
Who has she kissed?
What has she brushed
With her dark fingertips?
