i won't even try

the vase,

an heirloom,

slides off the wet sill

rain leaking in.

pieces

scatter,

shatter,

a small cloud of Italian

dust rises.

i inhale

two hundred years

of 

old clay hardened,

now vaporized.

it can't be 

repaired, i won't

even try.

the broom, the dustpan,

will suffice.