Shards

A game of glass requires skill: to miss the sharpened edge of sand purified and clear. And the little girl danced over the pieces. She was a phantom of delight, the enamel girl leaping, a polished performance let no charitable hope penetrate the face in the mirror. An interlude calls me--she cries, --And with its eyes I feel the farewell of Sexton, Plath, and Woolf All secret keepers in their right. All with goodbyes said in the night. For when the lamp is shattered the glass will cut you whole. And the writers don't see but feel--she sobs, --They seek out their happiness running without return.