If a half shivered mirror
Told me a tale of my stalemate
I’d laugh,
But the information
Before me is struck from the
Finest reflection
And making its mention
Unlikely to ever be blithe in
Outline.
A frail turn of affairs
Dressed up in a suit long removed
Of its groom
And settled in creases
Too deep to be smoothed by
An iron and board
Or a steam
Roller going dead slow down
A flat capped lane.
Hung on me now
With enough collar space
To allude to the
Vacuum beneath,
And although the silvered
Glass cannot reach
There’s no need as the
Clap of my chest pressing back
Into cloth is enough.
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