The ground beneath me shifts
Tectonic rifts
Destroy the glass
I placed upon that shelf.

Inexpensive trinkets,
Shattered on the floor.

The wine survived, the crystal too—
Well most of it.
And Grandma’s rosebud teapot,
The one she never used,
Isn’t even cracked.

The window in the kitchen,
The one above the sink,
Won’t close all the way.
The right half sank a quarter inch.
And the curtain hangs askew.

The fault, that’s what they call it,
Although movement’s in the plan,
Will agitate again—in time—
Deepening the cracks in
My foundation’s spider veins.