Murano Master

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

It’s like he’s made of real Murano glass

(Not made in China), if there’s such a thing

Now, but he thinks that we are Plexiglas.

He thinks that gods will grow a diamond wing

From each of his two shoulder blades, but we

Will not sprout wings.  He thinks he’s special, much

Like daffodils of purple, ebony

As teardrops on a god we cannot touch.

We sense that he is special, not because

Of glassy form alone, but when he walks

We hear his bones inside him like a vase

That tinkles ribs producing little squawks.

  We think he doesn’t hear them so he scorns

    Our rose-like dance.  He thinks that we are thorns.