A Shit Ton of Broken Glass and Bad Luck

When the city is quiet,

I swear

I can hear it

                           fucking talk.

Everyone we know

is going somewhere


the bars, the bed, the heavens.

I can hear them talk:

the heavens, the bed, the bars.

I look in the mirror—

observing the thinning lines

that carve up and carve out

my eyes.

Here’s my mirror;

here’s how my mirror works;

You only see

                           what you want.

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