Refraction

The hallway light is a thin, yellow knife.

He’s finally out, tangled in the quilt,

believing I can mend the way things look.

But the lens is a sharp, clear tooth

sunk in a puddle of apple juice.

I swore the moon would be closer by ten,

then I felt the plastic snap under my boot.

It’s just trash now, jagged and dull.

I can’t glue the focus back

into a hollow tube. I’m just standing here

holding the wreckage of a view.