Issue 79, Spring 1981
The breaking of things can look like an origination
But then reveal itself, through lights shimmering in fragments
Of smashed glass, as having occurred too late to have given
Birth to anything but a lighting up of just how late
It was—So with a crystal night of crashings that might be
Taken to have started out all our present darkening.
Like a plumber’s tools dropped into a box full of glass eyes,
Unretractable, the panes of fractured window, jagged,
Clear, looking down into black water and scarred cobblestones.
Looking out into where we are now, a confirmation.
Not an arrival. And yet our dry mouths thirst for the splash
Of some outset, some source, some once. We’ll have, then, for a scene
To start with something from the end of the story, a room
In hospital, with walls the color of late afternoon.