tessellated beyond count
and scattershot across the

sky a blizzard of faces
broadcast and reassembled

in states of conditional
existence the virtual

images in our mirror
reversed and reconstructed

upside down on the back walls
of our eyeballs interlaced

with lies beating on windows
i’ll huff i’ll puff and all the

objects in your mirror may
be closer than they appear


Once, you were timpani–a low rumble
along the spine; you were mine. But I
never truly considered possession, how

Do you think we are from time to time
receding? We often strive and strive,
reaching for creation. Why is it not
probable that we fall to event horizon?

Then, I think here no despair may follow,
nor comfort. Here, the vanishing point
disembarks and sits heavy upon the chest
and frailer organs within; even the skin
crawls away.

We begin to imagine phantom loves
and phantom touch, instruments.
And what music apathy starves, what
disappointment and what false support
from much closer objects.

A mirrored surface repeats and repeats.
If you listen, you may hear the glass
crack and fracture, stress concentration;
and distant drums marking time.