Cracked up mirror crunches time on a street corner. Whose mirror is it? When I look for the answer I only see myself – fragmented. Jagged elbows collide with eye brows and a stray knee cap. Parts of a whole spaced wide enough to stretch across one block wide.

I wonder what it was when it was still a working body. A diner mirror or a full length? Did it know it was complete or did it always have that nagging sense of space with sharp edges?

I was standing on the corner looking at these pieces for at least one minute too long before I picked out a shard. An eye. I could see what only pieces of snip-its might recall. In that shard there were a million conversations half cut off, cut up, and sticking. Straight out.

“This neighborhood is getting better all the time.” Bright eyes. Bright teeth. “In just a few years all this will be gentrified.” But that’s only half the conversation.

A rooming house, big old and paint peeled to perfection sits slumped below the hill. A large woman in a floral house dress sits on her plastic lawn chair. Smoking. She looks straight through the conversational shards and into the street corner.

Does she see me or only my back? A chunk is left by the house. Scraps of reflection scattering in the sun.   



A head full of thoughts can lead to a leakage, where thinking becomes air and air becomes tangible. If hats held heads together, fabric could become a fortress. Stuck in the gums of brain fog, ideas crank through a system of lines lost in linen. Black threaded jutting bears a force that dislodges them from somewhere in between. They unravel quickly. Clawing, biting, and rotted through strands of stick strutted anorexia, the brain becomes skinny when stray thoughts are purged. Out through the brain and into the air, they are gone like yesterday’s intentions.