First to go are the mirrors. Then
all the windows. So many at once

there isn’t enough time to grind
what remains to sand. You know,

something useful. Everyone
with a broom is exhausted. Broken
 
glass over concrete, jagged
constellations in yards, across
 
roads. There is nowhere left
to sleep. The government promises

everything is fine. See: lots
of bleeding. After all, now shoes

are illegal, which is very efficient.
Brooms are next. Soon, you won’t

be able to see yourself in the river,
which you’ll forget was ever there,
 
full as it is of batteries and used
handguns. Someone vaguely

in charge gives a speech made
of smoke. No one is left

to sweep up. Soon, the people
won’t remember the mirror factory

at all. They’ll forget the fence, the tower,
the fault lines of their own faces.
 

—Callista Buchen

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