I walk through the gallery,
saw myself repeated a thousand angles cutting back,
each one incomplete.
The floor collects the pieces I used to recognize,
now every step reveals
another fractured eye.
Which one speaks?
Which one bleeds?
Which one survived the fall?
I am the
broken surface,
I am the scattered light,
bent through a thousand versions,
not them quite right,
fractured into fragments,
each arm reflects the strain.
I am the
broken surface,
reconstructing grain by grain.
The edges draw their boundaries between who I was and am,
my reflection multiplies with every
examination.
I gather up the splinters,
their hands against the cut,
each piece holds a different truth,
I'm building something new from what.
Which one leaves?
Which one stays?
Which one holds the core?
I am the broken surface,
I am the scattered light,
bent through a thousand versions,
not them quite right,
refracted into fragments,
each arm reflects the strain.
I am the broken surface,
reconstructing grain by grain.
The break would feel the structure,
the fall lines were wider,
I studied my dispersal,
click
I am the broken surface,
no longer quite the same,
the gallery closes.
I take the pieces
home, swap them in the fluorescent,
all alone, not alone,
a thousand knees observing,
the work of reassembly,
not restoration,
just reconstruction necessarily.