In the Glass Museum

Lenses stacked on lenses are
supposed to make a clearer

field for the eye to see, to make 
a beam from a lighthouse carry 

through fog and rain. There is
a village of little red glass houses 

with slate blue roofs, above which 
is gathered and poised a storm 

of daggers. By the side of a road, 
a dark flock of carrion birds 

tears at flesh and drinks ruby 
shards of blood. In an atrium

flooded with celadon light,
a string of blown glass beads

hangs from the ceiling's invisible
neck. What else of our broken

or breakable lives enters into
this archive, without our consent?

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