A few weeks in I begin

to get a feel for it. Cutting

glass from sheets wide

as twin beds to replace

the island’s blown-out panes,

I drag a scoring knife

along the Sharpie line, slide

a pencil under and let

each plate drop, gently,

so they break clean. 

I go from cottage to empty

cottage, thumb the glazing,

hide the seams. Cormorants

on the far rocks shaking out

their wings and calling.

Late sun striking the Atlantic

like a gong. Running out

of windows, I slow my pace,

make sloppy cuts I know

won’t fit. I toss them in the bin

and order more sheets

from Portsmouth, then spend

the day imagining fresh glass

riding out on the single-

engine boat, nested

with cotton blankets in the hull.

How long can I go on

not finishing? Radio says falls

are lasting longer and longer.

The weather could hold.