Broken Plate
        il en faut ramasser les debris
        — Jean Follain

Freed from its servitude
it no longer thinks

of water or the hands
of a girl who held it

while someone tried
to kiss her.

It no longer thinks
of the wedges of lemon

floating in the beaded
water glasses

or how the other body,
not quite a ghost,

came to be
so close to the girl's.

Each bead of water seemed
a world unto itself

& the bright yellow
wedge a sun,

& the kiss, the plate
no longer thought,

had been either her first
or her last.

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Copyright © 2016 Patrick Moran All rights reserved
from There Are Things We Live Among
Grayson Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission