The Riddle of the Bloom

There is an arch at the top of the wall
from which breathes a stone quilt.
I am a patch in it, cemented between some others.
I cannot know them.
My bare feet dangle, search for leather,
for the flesh of a blossom
in a garden of tissue paper and salt crystal.
This is the riddle:
The sun rises on the other side of me
and I shift my plasm to let it through,
never really sure if the living bloom
is in my share of the garden.