and I’m trembling,
transfixed by mirror shards, by bottle shards.
Countryside steeled through storms
I hear elms crack beneath icy weight,
snow melting, sluicing into water barrels.
Books pile around the couch:
Catton, Fussel, Marcus, Marsh—
Civil War, World War, rock ‘n’ roll.
Sleep is exhaustion, pallid in its stream.
Every disappointment ranges beside me,
like crows rampant in a field.
I tire easily. I have nothing to add.
Some particular piece has ripped loose.
I’ve been on my knees to find it.