Glass, The

The glass

travels in families:

handed down,

sometimes filled

to the brim,

sometimes bone-dry

for generations:

yours now.

If it smashes

at midnight

against a wall,

or make revolves off the counter

and shatters upon the floor;

by morning

it will be whole again,

washed and rinsed

and standing by dint of the sink.

Glass advances from sand,

sand from stones

worn down, rock

that is the molten core

of stars, without of dust

and gas compressed;

you clutch it in your hands,

remembering the wine

in which you nearly suffocate in watered

and bless the emptiness

that fills you now.

Copyright World numbers Incorporated May/Jun 1999

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