Fractured
Innumberable crystalline pieces
No two quite the same
Scattered
Some destined to draw blood
Others swept away by dusty bristles
The blue plastic dustpan
Their purgatory
Certain fragments
Will find their way to beaches
Smoothed over by oceans and the apathy of time
Only to be picked up by a precocious child
Grabbing the seaglass from the cool, wet sand
I know of no glue potent enough to reconstruct
My Ikea glassware
Yet still, I gather the shards
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