You’re caught in a precarious balance this quiet Sunday,
lofting bottles from your rooftop, kept carefully by an iron balcony
from falling. Fractured glass litters the ground below, glittering
in the way only broken pieces do. I watch as you contribute,
sending whole bottles down to be halfed, then quartered, then shattered,
in the rush of mere moments from that far-enough fall.
Soon, two roofs away, the church bells’ll toll noon. If you aim right,
you’ll reach sacred ground with your keen glass, adding sharp
colors to the soft grass oft overturned. I imagine somehow from
the peak of your watch you’re paying strange homage to the bodies
buried there, that you see in its quiet land the same emptiness
you found in me, a graveyard for broken things.
And I see you in my heart’s eye more glorious than you are,
a wind chime three stories up, raining glass beautifully across
a kingdom of churchyards and empty Sunday mornings.
lofting bottles from your rooftop, kept carefully by an iron balcony
from falling. Fractured glass litters the ground below, glittering
in the way only broken pieces do. I watch as you contribute,
sending whole bottles down to be halfed, then quartered, then shattered,
in the rush of mere moments from that far-enough fall.
Soon, two roofs away, the church bells’ll toll noon. If you aim right,
you’ll reach sacred ground with your keen glass, adding sharp
colors to the soft grass oft overturned. I imagine somehow from
the peak of your watch you’re paying strange homage to the bodies
buried there, that you see in its quiet land the same emptiness
you found in me, a graveyard for broken things.
And I see you in my heart’s eye more glorious than you are,
a wind chime three stories up, raining glass beautifully across
a kingdom of churchyards and empty Sunday mornings.
