It is the formless I, awkward and sprawling,
That imperceptibly takes form, that through
The You, the beach, the bar, the outward world,
With its accoutrements of crumbled shrines,
Of facile, agitated sculptors’ hands,
That through these elements becomes resolved,
It is this I that verse must prison down.
Yet, when the mirror’s image turns complete,
It is the glass that must be smashed. Recall
Narcissus, the swampy pleasures of self-love,
And by these glassy symbols be forewarned.
Believe, or disbelieve; accept, disown;
Watching the self take shape. Then turn away,
To watch time walk in its anabasis,
Walking the self’s constructed shape to dust,
And then be silent.
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