for Jane King Sometimes there is a sound of ice breaking, or a harsher crash as the barriers are broken down, one by one. We either escape the shards or we become like them, and there is a little of us in every fragment, some here and some there. Broken flesh in the alleys around us, the sea, the rented rooms, bathtubs, subways. We discover them suddenly at odd hours. Pieces, too many to gather or recollect. We are adaptable and create substance where there is none, like the amputee who feels his missing feet.