surface shattered, not precisely across
the whole expanse, but for weeks,
between twenties-era floorboards.
I looked up repairs and remedies.
There were none without a specialist.
No glue that’s nontoxic.
Taking the back steps
two at a time Saturday
my new place, I looked up
at the sky and thought:
this wind is reckless as a harlot --
air that tosses and tousles…
stars that Van Gogh would’ve painted,
or maybe Picasso–
not precisely etched as gems,
but the quality of mica in powder
applied to an aging
décolleté before a
If you have any comments on this poem, Rosemarie Koch
would be pleased to hear from you.