Glass on Tile

The glass, half full, it caught the light

on the counter's edge, too far.

I watched its slow, deliberate flight,

like a fading, distant star.

A curve of water, clear and thin,

then a tipping, final shift.

It paused a second, hanging in,

a fragile, certain rift.

Then the sound, sharp and wet and deep,

the linoleum's dull reply.

I stood there, still, no sound to keep,

just broken pieces, where they lie.