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?
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.