Laughter
Patrick Lewis

I’m picking up the pieces of a broken mirror
and scouring the bloodier corners of my room.
I find some dust motes, some fading light-rays,
            some stained-glass memories
of scattered stars.

I wish I could show you all this shattered glass
            and the ways I’ve let you down:
“Here are my hideouts. Here is the clockwork.
The moss-grown stones we stack one by one.”

But you have to keep screaming.
These shards will stay
                      scattered
across the sky,
the moon will rise
                    nightly
like a headman’s axe,
and it’s funny
when you think about it--
All of us dancing alone.