{Pic taken by Munny at home: Fresh blossoms from the garden taking a bath in the clay bowl} 


Things fall apart

in our  houses,

as if jarred by the whim

of invisible ravagers:

not your hand

or mine,

or the girls

with the adamant fingernails

and the stride of the planets:

there is nothing to point to, no one

to blame – not the wind

or the tawny meridian

or terrestrial darkness;

no one with a nose or an elbow

or the lengthening span of a hip,

or a gust of the wind

or an ankle:

yet the crockery smashes, the lamp tumbles over,

the flowerpots totter

one after another

crowning the lapsing October

with crimson,

wan with their surfeit of violets,

others holding their emptiness in, circling

and circling and circling

the winter,

till the bowl with its blossoms

is gruel,

a keepsake in ruins, a luminous dust.


And the clockface

whose cadences


our lifetimes,

the secretive


of the weeks,

one after another,

yoking the hours

to the honey and quietude,

the travails and births without end –

even the clock

plunges downward, the delicate blues

of its viscera

pulse in the splintering glass

and its great heart

springs open.


Life grinds

on the glasses and powders, wearing us threadbare,

smashing to smithereens,


the forms ;

whatever is left of its passing abides

like a ship or a reef in the ocean,

and perishes there

in the circle of breakable hazard

ringed by the pitiless menace of waters.


Let us gather them, once and for all – the clocks

and the platters, cups carven in cold-

into a poke with them all and

down to the sea with our treasure!

there let our furniture smash

in the sinister shock of a breaker;

let the things that are broken

call out like a river

and the sea render back to us whole

in the might of its crosscurrents

all that we held of no worth,

the trumpery no hand has broken,

but still goes on breaking.