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The earth was hard and cold.
It was Winter as I lay on that ground
And dreamed upward, up
To the tip of the two-hundred
Story high-rise, its icicled pinnacle
Towering over me, almost
Peering down, leaning like Piza,
Like a haggard hunchbacked God.
Its brittle beard of icicles breaking
Free falling fearfully, needles
In the sky, their downward plunge
Of damnation.

And me, shivering, sinking
Into packed earth, still and weeping
And whispering (Please My Lord
Please) while the frozen shafts grew,
Zeroed in, hit the dirt
An inch from my eye,
Shattered like
Glass rain.


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