Another smashed glass,
wrong end of a gauche gesture
towards a cliff—compass-
rose of mis-direc-
tions, scattered to the twelve winds,
the wine-dark sea wreck.
Wholeness won’t stay put.
Why these sweeping conclusions?
Always you’re barefoot,
nude-soled in a room
fanged with recriminations,
leaning on a broom.
How can you know what’s
missing, unless you puzzle
all the shards? What cuts
is what’s overlooked,
the sliver of the unseen,
faceted, edged, hooked,
unremarked atom
of remorse broadcast across
lame linoleum.
of the just-made mistake, sift
smithereens of schist
for the unhidden
right-in-plain-sight needling
mote in the midden.
Fragments, say your feet,
make the shivered, shimmering
brokenness complete.
from Harvard Review