Sometimes you catch someone's glance across a room and know, you really know, that you should most definitely go there ... but you do.

SHARDS IN HER EYES

In the briefest of glittering glances
I spy the shards in her eyes.

Crystalline inclusions in the ice-blue iris;
vitreous splinters
rip-reflecting, slash-refracting;
scatter spitting pyrotechnic slivers
of shattered psychic spectra
shredded sensations
and scattered semblances
of sybaritic reality.

Amid the debris of these clinical incisions:
Reflected? Yes. Refracted? Yes.
I perceive a passing glimpse
of reconstructed ancient cruelties
past born and present pressed
into servile slavery.
Her intent is cut glass clear.

In that mere seconds glance,
less any scintillating second glance,
there were shards in her eyes

and one of them was me.