Life on Lesznianska Street
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Everything we are is in this canvas,
or what remains, the body,
its fibers plucked from a golden nap
bristling with the subtle reminder:
each of us is invisible to the other.

The evening knots with light.
I am alive like a mirror,
the paint struggling
to assemble my thoughts.

When he is not aware of it,
I watch for what he admits.

Death marks our lives; we count
on it to turn the calendar.
If not from hunger, then from random shootings.
“Finished?” he asks.

We are bodies.
What bullet will pin us to earth?
The point of this work. The assemblage.