There was also a teapot,
some years ago.
A teapot, in glass. Crashing, too,
against another kitchen.

Shards,
rather than words,
screamed on the tiles.

A sentence.
A few.
Spelled out in china or crystal.

These shards form
an unsaid story.

It is written,
meticulously,
through a myriad
sharp
clinky
pieces
forming a long
shiny
unpunctuated
sentence
on the floor.