[return to Contents Page]
As a child, at dawn, I gather shards of glass,
rinse them in the fountain and make my "circle."
Broken glass abounds in Central Park—cobalt
Milk of Magnesia blue, beer bottles from honey
to amber, shattered greens that once held wine.
"She might cut herself" strangers admonish my
mother. But she knows I have worlds to make
and not once do I injure myself.
At dusk, with a twig, I scatter the circle and
destroy the world, knowing there will be others...
the sands of time blow through
the sea of space