Plain American Language

This glass is alone underneath

my table, my checkerboard where

once or many times I played with

my great-uncle that never was old

until he died. Whether it is heat

or something else that forms it,

an immensely chip-able object,

had I strength and a towel

I would think, later, to break it
as if the hand were street and glass an echo,

clink of song bringing itself back

hard bits and pieces, immense sleepless sound.