Grade A: Broken Glass

Written in Albuquerque (Terrace SE), July 2005.  The fire in my backyard mentioned in “Against the Drone” left innumerable bits of glass from the trash dump that used to be there.  As much as I took out, there always seemed to be more.  Published in my books If I Could Be the Stone and Wings of the Gray Moon.

Broken Glass

 

My back lot

is a purity

of dead voracious sun

and sidelong glass sliver

and much of the glass

refinedly pounded into

sugary uncutting cubes.

 

I’m selecting this

atom by atom

slice by slice

for a plastic bag

and I hear the city workers

laying pipe a block up

jeering on their lunchhour

in shadow of hedge

and young mimosa

across the front street, one

keeping his hardhat on

 

and when a tall

college girl passes

dressed for July

they try not to be stereotypes

and only turn their eyes

and whisper evaluations

once her back’s to them.

 

I can’t see any of this

from where I am.

I’m not hiding

but hidden.

My lowered flesh

sows the ground

with salt.

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