In this room
the walls are glass
they are not walls
my mother’s voice
and my voice
are here
I cannot tell which
is which
the floor is a matrix
of shifting intersections
I stumble
and crack
the invisible casings
of other voices
when he went
to another country
the son
was a happy man
his mother wished
he would be
that man in her country
looking for a place
on a map
at high magnification
is to lose
points A and B
another voice
in the room
says the music
is in the front
of the room
but it is everywhere
it says
find your balance
in a coin on the floor
or a mark on the wall
but what wall
and first we must flatten
the edges of this noise
into a singular chime
left to hang in the air
until it vanishes