That space between my head and I
Is filled with bright and civil sky
With butterflies of colors bright,
With fires on a long cold night,
With light green grass and deep
Green trees, 
With pretty colored little bees.

But with the blades of perfect grass
Stick up needles and broken glass
And though I try to step quite lightly
A piece of glass comes up to spite me
And sticks me in my woman’s foot
And holds me there just like a hook
And will not let me go although
I scream and rock both too and fro.

In fact, it grows shockingly quick
It grows until it is a stick
A stick of glass stuck in my foot.
And here I still hang, stuck put.