Icicles

The Icicles

I bought a picture frame and crouching
put my cuorduroy knee through the glass.
I knew immediately by the crack that

I may as well have blown my nose on
that sixteen quid. Yet when I flipped it on
its back, there were icicles hanging from

the untouched pine. I laid them out in a
jagged line, ten fat shimmies of invisible
green, sculpted by accident, perfect

flourishes of invisible ink, sinuous daggers,
see-through snakes. I felt the need to salvage
those crooked smirks, but a deep nick in

my thumb knuckle made me think; better to
throw them away. So only I saw them before
the thaw. My only proof: elastoplast, a scar.