Glass
The mirror in this rented room is fixed
exactly to reflect my pillowed face,
the first thing I set eyes on when I wake.
Most nights I hang a hasty covering
to save me from the sight of cheeks caved,
bags under eyes, mottled age.
Or is it in case my other self steals
out from behind thin silver, feels
its way across the gulf to enter me,
so I start to do everything backwards,
miss my mouth, turn notebook sideways,
my words always edgeways.
Or if for fear I die before night passes,
and that other world traps my soul fast.
I am forever pinned under glass.
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 