Be clear as a glass house

ladled in plates, liquid

silica, sand, dolomite, lime,

then tempered, shaped, craned

till you stand fastened

to forest floor, reflecting.

Let the sudden garden strut

up, rising in ribboned slope,

pine and pin oak, laurel,

fleabane, draw markers for

their names, it's all yours, the bits

of talisman and tame.

Also, quit that stupid trembling.

You could be the wild

turkey last season who slammed

the glass again and again, all

gobble and snood, scrimmage

of spit, wattles on fire at first

seeing itself. Be the crash

that comes after crack.

Else, you're nothing but the single

shard that hangs for its moment,

see-through guillotine,

over the broken world.