Plastic spoons wither in the summer rain;
bland reflections speak mutely, purple
and frozen,
like squirrels in
the snowbanks, erupting from the melancholy tombstones
like the first weed in the spring
garden.
My heart the closet, sheer
the bitter fragments inside; the secrets
broken like china in a puddle on the floor;
 	I step forward
 	and my foot bleeds.