I tap-smashed—by mistake?—
our bedroom window, and rational-
ized it as a large weep-

hole that winter, for a while, at least,
until the mist from the ends of
the earth gathered there, and till

glass icicles slivered into our toes
and fingers too many times
to ignore any longer—

Do we get the new pane cut
to be slightly larger or smaller,
how to remove the old sharp shards

with their dangerous forget-
fulnesses, and how will we fit
in the glaze and points? This is the kind

of thing your dad knew without thinking,
but he's dead now and can't tell us a thing.
Even worse, it's Sunday, the one day

we have to rest as well as work, so . . .
Time to wrestle with the new glass
at long last, and I wake up early,

start to shave: with a swift, near-
knowing stroke, his old razor deftly
measures a long crisp cut across my neck.

What will stop me now from bleeding
clear, sharp air? How can an inch
of trauma measure eternity, ever?

Who was this saint of glass?