Adam's Mirror

The Cutter cuts the shards of glass
to make a new face,
a cold mosaic
of colour, glitter,
little sharp pieces
glancing at each other
with their light -
a pretty, pretty-boy
sight to stir the heart
of all young Alices
who look within and
see the apple red.

The skin's bloom is dead
all is now astringent -
so much peeling back
the layers diminish
to a lack and are thin -
thin enough to let the
air pour in
those porous hides
bound with holes,
grey rings, and severings.

Adam pats his back,
congratulates the days
his face has looked in -
round, mooning, simpleface
with arrogance-like-shards
and ego-cuts enough
to bloom the skin to pink
to make the mirror whole again.

The Cutter grins.  He deals in glass.
His Cousin does the clocks.

previous poem