mirrors are merely
pixels
crumbled post-its
broken pottery.
what is clean and holy?
a wolf in sheepskin?
for we have too few angels
and too many pins
and needles
and fallen leaders
and fortune tellers that
gaze, into a world of wishes and whale yawns.
the horizon holds nothing
aside from the occasional
thimbleful of sobs, trapped,
just below the heavens
the thick smog catches the rest
before they reach the Creator’s
thin-skinned drums.
twisted bodies
lie in shame
in darkness
under trees no one can
uproot for themselves
our secrets and our souls
are scribbled on
airplane stubs,
receipts for cigarettes,
or vcr boxes.
who made us so temporary?
a gasp to begin.
a gasp to end.
what more can we be than that?
mirrors are made of millions of lies,
laughter through gritted teeth,
and the sound of salvation being lost.
