Reading done with mirrors
is a backwards art
I fear
learning. When self-reflection
becomes an obsession, it’s time
to stop
paying the electric bill. Time
to flip
all letters hanging in suspension.
Vampire Poet
She is one—or
thinks she is. That blood
on her chin
is really ink she stole
from your pen. See how perfect
diamonds have been cut
out of the pages
to your book of musings. Don’t laugh—
she might get away with it.
Two Windows In
Dilated pupils as the sun sets,
I find my way
home by other means.
My parents met outside
an eye doctor’s office. I’m not looking
for it. Patterns can be broken
especially if
I don’t participate
in the first place. The last place
I would hide
in might be so cold.
Doused
A V of black
birds moves across
the sky, the bus
is late again. Her stomach
aches from testing
all those body mist
testers—one scent
is too much
for her. Any bird alone
must be lost
she thinks. When she wants
to hide, she goes
to sleep. Figments find her
face up ready
to receive an aroma
therapy of dreams.
Net
Head tilted forward,
she studies
his face, hopes
to learn how to bend
notes to put them
in a jar, poke holes
so they can breathe, warp,
turn into something
else. She’s afraid to dream
what that might be.
March Loops
She slips through
a gum-cracking crowd
just in time
to shield her eyes
from a parade of ponchos
and cowls getting closer. Wants
to remember to open them
in time to find the perfect
tiny spoon for her diorama
existence of shrinking
days—expanding nights.
Snow Globe Shaken
If I don’t break
it en route home,
this mason jar
could become the first
glass image
I transform without
getting sand
in my eyes.
Eyewear
Brushed velvet
metal the color
of rich stories
and a dream euphoria
without wine. Italian
acetate won’t be recalled.
Seeking Muse for Hire
Her current favorite
has gone abroad
for the remainder
of the year. Another one
just quit—returned
to the grave without so much
as a simple parting
image. A once reliable one
keeps hiding
downriver. The weather is
unremarkable. No plans
to travel around cliffs
or on crowded trains.
Even a blinking red
traffic safety light
on that man’s messenger
bag in an indoor plaza
leaves her
without illumination. To be chronic
has its challenges—she might borrow
one just to get through this night.
Sole Cinquain
I see
urban hermits
amidst slow-moving crowds
who do not speak of loneliness
exposed.
