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.