I am not a violent person.
When I step outside for air,
I find it thick, choking,
if only I could claw it away.
The glass jars glinting in the sun
with their film of forgotten ambitions
freshen my anger.
Like the jagged, sinister edge
of broken glass, your disdain and delusion
await my frantic efforts to clean up, repair.
I’ll cut myself again and again.
My pieces soon irreconcilable to my shape.
My hand closes slowly around a jar,
lifts it skyward, the trees distorted through
its fuzzy, melded shape.
When it shatters against the stones,
my own shattering acquires a sound,
a sensation.
Later you complain about the mess,
or was it before?
I can’t recall.
Every jar is broken. Every dream is ended.
The pieces spell out
every undiscovered sin.
The pieces are glittering.
The pieces
are lighting my way.