They glisten in the dying glint of day,
see so many, so many shining shards
all traced in lines of light that point their ways,
all fallen like the scattered house of cards.
And what a crash of breaking from the heights,
and what the moment frozen in its move,
and how the fragments brush the lesser lights,
and how the passing present fickle proves…
Now would I hold a fragment to the moon,
and now reflect an Eye and call it good?
From what I know of glass I’d very soon
taste sharp the scent and savor of my blood.
If I had any wisdom I would sweep
up all these shards and toss them in a heap.
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