Hard Rain

Climbing into the car for school
my daughter says—don’t
the raindrops seem harder
than usual—Well maybe there’s
a bit of freezing—I am always
obliged to answer them,
even lame answers when
I haven’t a clue.
I drop them off.
Go to the office
and it is a hard rain,
not ice though,
glass,
silvered glass drops,
knives,
shards of mirror;
they pile at my ankles and collect
around my shoes.
I kick at them,
send bits and pieces of my toes spinning.
My hands are bleeding
thin pink blood.
I throw the seepage from my hands,
a thousand tinsel streamers
like the clown buckets at the circus,
teeth,
bones,
laugh;
where is the light?