Stuck in the Frame
The face in the mirror looked like a colossal junkyard:
swamps and one broken-down fragment, a hotchpotch.
I glanced down at tiny black shapes swarming instead
of sleeves at the shoulder—floppy wings. I’d forgotten
my bathrobe, myself. The world was a lampshade.
A wan reflection ghosted over the landscape. My cheeks
touching, rather spectacular, would carry me off. White
plastic sunglasses kept my face from disturbing my lips
as I negotiated lawn sprinklers and tennis rackets,
the breath of pine wilderness, the domesticated blood.
The pears were unripe. I spoke through my teeth.
A summer calm laid slippery and clean, like death.
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