Some Things Are Broken
The clock's hands are stuck indefinitely
Pointing at fragments it will never
Comprehend, its face staring
Cold at the air that surrounds it.
Hollow drafts fill a kitchen in a house
Where honey once dripped golden
Along the side of a mug, announcing
Itself only when it reached out
To grasp warm fingers encircling
The handle. There is no can opener
Crying after chipping a serrated
Tooth; no tiles waxed to mimic
Ceilings - instead they sit idly
Upon a wood foundation, longing
To groan, to bend in delight
Under welcomed pressure.
Years ago, a seed managed
To burst from these boards,
Pushing dust aside and bursting
Through glass, expanding outward
As a sleeper when the sun prods
Him into consciousness, yawning
And fumbling through the slow
Motion of morning, finding
A snooze button before returning
To stasis in an empty bed.