Laughter PATRICK LEWIS
I’m picking up the pieces of a broken mirror and scouring the bloodier corners of my room. I find some dust motes, some fading light-rays, some stained-glass memories of scattered stars. I wish I could show you all this shattered glass and the ways I’ve let you down: “Here are my hideouts. Here is the clockwork. The moss-grown stones we stack one by one.” But you have to keep screaming. These shards will stay scattered across the sky, the moon will rise nightly like a headman’s axe, and it’s funny when you think about it— All of us dancing alone.
48 • fall 2020
