The vanity
table’s elliptical
surface shattered, not precisely across
the whole expanse, but for weeks,
glass splinters
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
night behind
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
rearranged lens.

Rosemarie Koch

If you have any comments on this  poem, Rosemarie Koch would be pleased to hear from you.