Mouth Besieged by Fragments

What I found in the demolition skip was not relic or resource, only a pane that resisted—edged with lime, pressed by city salt, the kind of glass that refuses transparency. I held it in the studio until the sun cut through it, showing how scar and cloud mingle on a single surface. The urge was to trap the fight at the mouth, to gouge the rim not for decoration but to remember hands—mine, others—tracing their way in, or out, or nowhere. Some marks are the caravan’s, some are just hunger. Below the glass and salt, I pressed what the street gave me: broken seed pots, a copper-green flake, bits traded from the mud. The form is not an archive. It is a refusal. Every sealing is a kind of argument. You can see where the materials turn on each other. I will not intervene to make it clean. It costs a silence. Not everything beneath the crust is meant to emerge.