One Hundred and Thirty Two

A mosaic of ice rests on the mucky murky water. The river is hair gel, thickgoopy stillness. The tiles are green depression glass found at yard-sales fashioned into pretty pitchers, cake platters, serving plates. But these tiles are broken bits of pitchers platters plates. They are varied, crackledspiky, chunkyfull, splinteredcutting. I use old-time pincers to bite the ice and rearrange them as my bending brain plucks out a dragon’s head, tulip, top-hat.