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