In Pieces
Stephen Massimilla
Like a man who shifts his head
in the wind and spots a possum shaking
on a telephone wire, I’ll let
my hair fissure the sky. I’ll forget
that no swan makes my voice break
into song. I’ll forget the child
with the face of a cracked egg.
And the cicadas’
empty shells. Last night,
the obsolete phone booth
in which I once called
for assistance was full
of shattered glass. Today,
a fraction of blue heron
brims above cattails: pretty, piti-
less. A sheet of cloud in a fork-
lift of storm. Morse dots of rain
on blades of turf. Through
the camera lens, my bloodshot eye
takes a shine to mirror-fish
in the choppy pond.
The man is cut out of the picture.
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