(A Fibonacci poem inspired by 9 broken pieces that seemed about the right size. The subject matter is old, though hardly as old as the vintage saucer.)
She
Says
You can't
Hold broken
Glass like a baby
Crying, cooing, rocking the shards
Of a cobalt sky you held far too long in your mind
Slick of the glaze disguising the stuff of this stuff is as
porous as dust of my bones
Blue/white jigsaw pieces, Picasso and pizza, Christmas
missed, a flaming tree, you slept through the question, now they don’t make
that kind anymore.
