I would bring the glass flowers to the broken marriages
Because of their flowering time, the once and for all
Hard petals, cups and saucers from a doll's house,
The imaginary roots that grow into the table.
The glass iron cooling in your hand will double as
A darning last, a curve of light beneath the holes:
Let me rock along the seams with it before your
Breath condenses on heels and elbows made of glass.
Michael Longley, Gorse Fires, Cape Poetry, 2009.