At the window, light bounces
off me, journeys to glass.
Most passes through this solid pane,
tunnels away into night.
You can’t predict which photons
will reflect. There is only probability.
The five percent I see looking back
ghost the window with the shell of my face.
Our bedrock is not rock at all
but shifting sands, particles that slip
in and out of space, find themselves
in different places at the same time.
I think how no-one is ever truly seen,
how what we know is a surface
of a surface of a surface.
First published in 14 Magazine