I place my shards
at your feet
is what I hear when I pick
at broken glass in the dirt
Perhaps placed is not
right for the vandal
doesn't care
where the shards land or
whether they puncture a paw
or file into a foot
In fact, the vandal doesn't care
for anything at all
when that bottle busts--
evidence of
something intimate ignored
or forsaken, something that rises
amidst glowing faces
round a ravishing fire
Damn it all to hell
the shards convey
whether in the woods or
at sea (broken over
the bow of a boat? shattered
over the jetty's jutted edges?)
dusty and misty
collectible and collected.
How ironic--this now dulled
mad dash at the world
for its own careless ways
sits innocuous in a dish
the focal point in some
stranger's living room.
