Night of broken glass

 

On this night of broken glass,

of fragile safety

held by a too-slender thread,

the yellow sun slips over the edge

into the dark half of the year,

leaves behind scattered shards

of steel-sharp, star-sharp light

in water buckets

and ice crisp in the furrowed fields.

On this night of broken,

iron-hook crosses,

moon floats above the edge

of the dark line between now and when

the bone-pale shoots will curl

their fingers through the cold earth,

like the dead resuscitated.

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