Did it rain that night? Was it raining?
& the polished eye sees it, backwards.
Glossy, a scrying mirror,
the strange alphabet of memory.
How we construct the moment,
gild it, layers of glitter & cheap
paint so we can pretend
to be kings. Who wore the crown
in the end? Which dreamed it?
A part of me will always be
spinning circles in the garden
as the dew settles, bare
feet & incense, untouched yet
by the thorn of truth. A part
of us remains in the mirror,
doesn’t it? & don’t we catch it
sometimes, in the small hours,
when grit-eyed & heavy we stumble
to bed. When in vain we try
to splash the weight of the day
& the years from our aging faces.
Don’t we see it there, when we look
up? Something in the eyes,
a quality,
silent rain falling on a familiar street.
All of the ghosts
we swallowed, & how we wear them,
their skins like the finest silks,
even now.
Backwards, we see it. Wrong
side of a looking glass. All of us
dancing inside an iris.
And we blot our damp faces.
And we turn out the light.
And, &,
&