Someone once gave me a gift

a small polyhedron, parceled and thin

tied with strings, so as to not unfurl

"What for?" I asked unsure,

and heard back, distance unknown,

"I was reminded

of the matchbook girl,

and this...

is a tinderbox

world."

I had a free lunch;

long I thought, and

it wasn't by ticket

or digital coupon

I didn't swipe a card

avoiding debit or credit

or otherwise shameface

self or neighbors;

It was brought to me

quietly in the dawn

like a mouse gnawing

the small opening to a barn

a simple open-eye affair

real or imagined

that is all

on deathbed hay

I repainted my banquet

with a milliard hungry

mental brushstrokes

for lack

of material, and words,

and could

almost taste

every last living morsel

disappearing as quickly

as it had all appeared

free... and not free

It's only natural.

I see, I said

as you spoke

of sunshine and little trifles, overseas

you talk about the crash of waves

on war torn beaches with stardust

where tourists bronze

and all those finer spots

yet untouched, native green

or naive, I think it's called

The dark has one demand

always one, of us... as an ear

suctioned to the chest

of Life,

with

shock

and grievance:

"Tell me how..."

listening, not breathing;

"...how your heart..."

in utter silence

of internal night

"...was broken?!"

shook

...no longer beating

when the whole world

out here, goes on living???

I used to love mirrors.

Windows and mirrors, but mirrors even more so held fascination for me because these didn't open up space somewhere out there... they doubled it, right here and now. Of course, glass is glass, and both windows and mirrors cut a person from that place beyond. But the magic of mirrors, in doubling, is that they magnify, as if, the light and mood.

Our atmosphere.

A window, big or small, only exaggerates the confines of the interior.

The interesting point, to which I am slowing coming to, is that I never saw myself in these mirrors, only the silent beatific extension of living room. So much so that in every house I've ever lived I have liberally hung these before even thinking about curtains. It will be of no surprise that then I lived alone.... and on reflection, not alone...

In my current abode, having grown old, I have several companions, human and animal. I have hung only one mirror, and this I said aloud, while hanging it, was for safety.

It's by the rear door, and in our shot gun sort of house, shows everything over the shoulder.

I used to look out for ghosts,

in through many windows

I used to whistle different tunes

to bring the cells into view,

Spaces of me and you...

reminds me of a refrain

a song when heard in full

I hated

in monologue

because it could have been

really good,

"...Is this what you wanted..."

when eyes roll in

backwards

and the re-wind, on the alarm clock

mechanism,

seems it won't... in the morning

be working;

and we're caught, looking 'round

for glasses, for coffee,

or reading,

and those odd slippers, are waiting

unseen;

we might remember, then

all these things, inarticulate

were once far up

on the table, even more

out of reach

When I think I'd like, somehow

to alt, shift, delete... the iceberg...

myself, I shudder at human frailty

the aww that would make more,

into less... melting it

for immediate comfort

...sacrificing our depths

Thanks for the flowers sketched

just outside the window's pane

ours is the beauty fleeting

on glass

fingers leave the remembrance

of heat... a halo

around the frost,

as the wind blows the dusts...

stirring something inside of us