All day you are brilliant out of yourself
resplendent.
Now night coming
there is a fold into which you fold
curving yourself around your light.
In the reflection caught
in your toes as you stretch
down to your center
there is no face
no eyes.
O but the rose
the rose.
More beautiful even than you
it made you taste ashes
spit out ashes
and dream of fruit of the vine.
Bird-scream bustle you tangled arms and cars pushing and pulsing with dreams caught in your throats—gag— wait—is that a dagger I see...
My house but the rooms are not mine. Here is where I sat to escape my death, here the mirror of the many faces. Each room says “where?”...
Follow the tracks the crows make the splintered blue imprints of trees in water. Impressed by pond scum leap over this into that green...