Objects are Closer

The driveway shrinks into a gray postage stamp,

taking the porch light and the silence with it.

Nobody mentioned the jail or the sentencing,

we just passed the potato salad and talked about the weather.

I tilt the glass to find the road,

but a hairline fracture splits the view.

The car behind me is severed in half,

one headlight floating three inches above the other.

That’s how we keep the peace, I suppose—

by looking back through a broken lens

until the things we can’t fix

are too small to see in the glare.