What Light Would Undo

Paper and glue, two thousand faces, kept in dusk behind glass — twelve cases so you can see one house without the day undoing the paint.

Nearly half those streets aren't on the map anymore. Tonight you can walk them free on a phone: then beside now, the lot that took the quarter, the curb that forgot the shop.

The cardboard stays where it must. Looking left the glass. What light would undo still holds the street the street lost.