Refractions

Shards of someone he knew, shot through
him like pieces of glass (they passed
in the street with a flurry of scurrying feet)
and he felt like kicking someone's ass.

Emily is brewing tea (he can see her
shirtsleeve and steaming Earl Gray).
The light of a cold, musty day streams in
columns of blue, purple, scheming rays,
throwing his vision askew.

The shattered frame is a geometric jungle,
all panes and planes. The angled pieces and
glittering dust prick his conscience and
he wonders if any glass fell out the other side.

He sits there amidst the burnt sand;
he could be a shell on the beach,
with the waters of salvation
 only  slightly   out    of     reach.

A knock at the door, sharp and defined.
He knows who is there; knows that she knows.
Later, a maid will seep up his broken windows,
the windows that show him more of himself
than of the street below.

1992