Breaking glass

My friend Leslie
     breaks glass
spends hours
     piecing it back
into shapes and colors
     and stories;
I break memories
     and emotions
into letters and ink
     spend hours
reordering them
     into lines and verse.
Do we mirror our lives
     in mosaic and poem
or are we reinventing it
     spinning it
changing its meaning
     as we change its form?
Do people see us
     in our art
or do they see a trick
     of the light,
a refraction, not quite true?
     Maybe
what they see in glass and verse
     is truth
and we have ceased
     to matter.

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