The shock of glass exploding on the floor
and bleeding water dripping from each shard
mark time by this meridian before
and after by the danger we regard:
exposed to dying flowers, violent ends
cut once, cut twice, will not be cut a third.
No lover will receive of these amends
which everyone now present will have heard.
Don’t cry for little losses; cry for help
to clean with broom and mop this little mess.
These little tragedies, keep to yourself
as broken petals keep their tenderness.
They’ll soon be long forgotten, in the waste,
and by another soon will be replaced.