I see straight through myself
and into the no mirror.
A frame stares back,
announcing the time: late.
And the temperature:
still warm.
I recognize the calm
bystander's snowy face,
the handwriting on the blackboard
where the chalk dust
from the names of the present
falls to the ledge
toward those who have disappeared.
1 comment:
from The Poetry Anthology (1912-2002)
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