I collect glass from the sea and begin again.
On the wall, shadows. Intricacy. Sun shapes.
I pattern my hand in blue-green tinges,
The brown even of a cracked Coke,
Reaching for the proof of a new life.
Time makes brokenness soft;
I think of the way it turns and gives its chances.
I Imagine that the glass
Framing my ceiling in oblong light
Was once housing an SOS
And consumed by decaying innards, desperate thoughts.
How nice to exist now as more than a mere vessel.
When long after I’ve become un-whole,
I too remember the message I used to carry.
Gone to the waves, it gives me no purpose,
So I wait to be something new.
The Coke bottle catches sun and spits it into my hands.
It was once lost at sea (and maybe I was too),
But it spins in newfound triumph
And teaches me to see broke glass for more than its edges.
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UF PRISM 