Breaking
six a.m.
gray dulls the straight horizon
with morning tumble-burst rain clouds
look, even the sun is breaking!
so am I
tied to my bed in thoughts of the having, the holding,
the breaking
broken glass is nice
it cuts less, grinds down instead of in
in fact, broken glass can't bring you
half the sadness of breaking
it goes deep and down, then it twists around
now, it's done again
it stays there
like thick fog covering sunlight
trying to rise yellow bright
reduced to breaking smoky gray
honey, sitting on a shelf
in a bandage womb of blankets;
paste her together with plaster and glue
in only hours she'll be just like new
all my tomorrows
I was the fool lit to "dusty death"
out brief candle!
alone again,
hoping to break out
instead of breaking inside
*Entry for Mark Toney's Marathon Mile 3 Premium Contest
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