Quarrel

Shards and splinters, fragmentation bomb
to shatter the smooth surface. Underneath
still mud is stirred and there's a sudden stink
wrung loose from the old dregs of years and years

of quiet fermentation, sediments
of dust, of broken twigs and leaves - the last
faint flutter of the autumn breeze has dropped
discarded paper on the sleepy pond

and all the slow discoloration's changed
in one unsought eruption. All the day
stands clear, bereft of vagueness, like a flash
of lightning newly branded on the eyes

while in my neck I feel the skin contract -
too strong a spell the unsuspected words
that wrecked the status quo, and leave me stand
aghast at how I overplayed my hand.