I hear plates breaking under my feet
where the rain fell on the snow.
Where sleet was forged
and filled the cupboard of the earth
I heard the ringing of porcelain
like the crackling of ice on the lake.
The wind pushing the platters
of winter’s virginity onto the beach.
Everything was cups and saucers.
Pitchers of milk skimmed
until only the white drops
of the mother’s soul was left.
And I was the bull in the china shop
who moved as delicately
as a bull can move,
my ominous weight like time dying in its sleep,
among thunders left by its dreaming.