RECOVERY
Break into pieces
and the pot will shatter
its shards
wherever the earth
will collect them again,
where all fragments
wither, knowing this soil
of the forgotten
over-trod by generations
who feast on time
as if they had it all to themselves,
the débris of the heart
left
for grave-robbers to discover
yet I turn in my hand
this one blue triangle over
that must have graced
someone’s living and now mine
where the absence was
I claim
and declare it
beautiful and incomplete,
hoping for fingers
finally
to clench all indignities