Cut Glass

Cut glass
on a windowsill
starch-stained and empty of all but atmosphere

Plate glass
in a window frame
fossilized raindrop dappled

Eyeglasses
on a floor
spiderweb splintered and shattered

Window glass
across the carpet
tear-washed and bloody

Mirror glass
in a sink
toothpaste spattered and reflecting nothing at all

Broken glass
in her hand
blood smeared and sparkling

Etched class
in a shuttered case
far removed
from every eye

A One Hundred Watt Woman

A contrast here
of rashly darkened sky
when from some other and oblique angle
there is light

rising and again
reflected down among us
where we sprawl damply in the wetted lawn
illuminated

though shadowless
unable to stop this glowing
which penetrates and envelopes in one motion.
Intuition

tells us fear though
reason sees no thing at all or
how we make our own faces into small
reflections

precise, acute
reactions to this washing,
an amber recoil and release into
what had been about to happen in that awful flare.