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In Vivo In Vitro
Life is not as brittle as a glass comb,
or death as dark as childhood sleep.
What really matters is what quietly breaks
into fragments carefully cataloged
and kept apart from thumbtacks, pins
and the various systems of metamorphosis.
Do "the parents die when the child is born"?
Is the fork in the tree so close to the ground?
Maybe when the mirror falls
it never lands before we wake,
but simply disappears in the wrong tense,
visiting itself upon a photograph of ghosts.
Science will find its panoply of shards
hidden in the underground among its
petrified and shattered visions. Everything
returns to haunt the dream where,
pasted flesh to glass, the little
parts of life are there for everyone to see.
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