and entered through a single blue
fissure. Each brush stroke
had been its own allegory
and could not reconcile the break.
My insomnia was a reinvention
of what had gone before.
I felt for connection in blind corridors,
long and labyrinthine, full of whispers.
Who’s there? I worried
from within the room’s glass eye.
Maybe I was dreaming. The facts were hard
to parse and sometimes lied.
I did, too, confused by what
my reflection said. It had a revelation for me
but the glass distorted it.
Details piled up
and the fissure widened.
It arrowed in on a thin red line.
It splintered our embrace
and again I was alone.