Mirror Me
Mirror,
you
are right,
we grow to live
with our Ghost
all in parallel universe
wash and wear
rinse and repeat
we blow kisses
into the wind
upon that Narcissus train
of moving things
...Life...
...goes on...
but we are always 17
or whatever age
it was
we became
unhinged
and realization
opened
to us
like a photo album
or a needle
on a record
and drew
the mental picture
of Everything
as burial...
leaving its
dinosaurs
upon our chests
and we answer
with form
and structure
as poetry
as essay
in silence
like the Concentrics
on a tree
or
Stratigraphic
soil testing
where we can see
eras of our Life
all these things
mirror, you
as mute
accomplice
hide and see
Do Not Open
unlatched
to fall,
is a letting go
the foot leaves
the tree stems
stimming us
with a wobbling
fidget cannot replace
but does, asked or axeless
with that maddest intent
to hold on, to hold off, to
holler bloodlet, labour,
holler jaundiced dying
holler onyx, Blackbox theatre
holler fake fire! immolation
the trunk in flames
full of faith, knotted
with note of warning,
Signed "Pandora," closing
Only People.
In isolation
it is They.
They the scattered
puzzle's parts
that lay
obscuring one
another overturned
upside down, sideways
in glances
a mess
we'd say.
Catching a glass
reflection
the taste bitter
pleasant, ruddy.
I deserve that reprimand
burning my tongue.
The tableau idyllic,
full cups, steaming
no piece missing
the scene.
Only people.
