I woke up
with glass shards in my mouth.
I spit them at moving targets
and I was sorry.
But I thanked God
or whoever
for that quick heel stamp,
that satisfying give and
crack.
Because there's nothing you can do
with a mirror but
reflect the cloudy sky
or collect grains of fog.
(Unless you're lucky and
it's sunny. Otherwise,
you're stuck
with gummed up and heavy.)
Sharp, ragged, dangerous,
shards draw blood.
But rounded and rearranged,
I see art.
And I'm grateful for the choice.
