8 [photocopy of a snapshot] I cut Lillian's hair every twelfth week, dry it every sixth. It grows. I cut it. I dry it. It has become grey by increments; city pigeon to autumn noon, fading print to cigarette ash. Each accretion of tone slowly highlighting further her pink brittle cheeks, the pools … Continue reading Mirror (8): Pale Airman.
I'm over here - in the hearth - sitting in the fireplace, in the flames, atop the crackling wood. I'll whisper or I'll shout your name as the glow of the logs oranges my skin. The sap bubbles all about me, the pine cones pop, but still I cannot raise a heat. Oh, if only … Continue reading Cold As Mackerel, See.
I rarely see myself in the day mirror anymore, having learned to disappear myself. The day mirror has become my third eye. The day mirror allows me to become magnificent, mercurial. I enter and leave it at will. Within its frame, I free range and, despite being close enough to kiss your ear, I look … Continue reading Mirror (1-3).