There is glass in our bed
Each shard a name
Betty, Sue, Cathy,
April is a season
Or is it?
I don't know anymore
I pick their names out of my skin
Raise them to the sun like gods
Blood glistens; even the walls cry cry-
Falling like snowflakes with hearts
Why do things that fall, break?
Copyright 2006 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.