The bagger hoists
the last sack of groceries
into the cart.

The snowglobe settles slowly
Into the townscape.  She watches
Fretful for the postman
Caught in the storm.  Caught in the glass.
She saddens.  She shakes the globe

I didn’t take it seriously until she said
Life is fun, after telling me of a pain she couldn’t put into words
And I saw it in her eyes

I am sliding across
your rippling image.
A flash of glass,
a rope of bones.

 I've never really liked the sound
of my voice so I’ll let my body speak.
It moves with more confidence
although both are small. My voice sounds like
the ding of a triangle – the tiny three-sided
percussion instrument, but my body trusts in dancing;
it’s sure of its turns and landings to leaps,
I’m least likely to stutter if I use my hands,
my arms, my legs, and my feet.

Cross-legged on the floor,
he looks across the lawn,
sings love songs
which are not for her.