lofting bottles from your rooftop, kept carefully
by an iron balcony from falling.
Fractured glass litters the ground below, glittering
in the way only broken pieces can.
On and on you contribute,
sending whole bottles down
to be halved, then quartered, then shattered
in a rush of moments.
Two roofs away, church bells will soon toll noon.
Aim right and you’ll reach that sacred ground
with keen glass, adding stained colors
to overturned grass, paying strange homage
to the bodies buried there;
a wind-chime three stories up.
Perhaps you see in this quiet land
the same emptiness you found in me,
a graveyard for broken things.