mirrors

mirrors

and too in the bowl

of the Buddha cumulus

moves to its edge, breaks

                                                s. lee

when it’s what’s behind

that makes what’s in front

                a              bl            ur.

when a blow to the back of the head

is what comes next, is a slo          w

“what did he say?” when  we know

not the hour, day? and when

in our face, after the years of bore-

dom, it’s all in the mirror:

we’re already old, even though

the day’s not done.  it’s too soon

for gossip of the April birds who rest

in birches.  even when their song is out

beyond us, even when these

curved words, hauled up

out of yesterdays are like sips

of warm milk, pinches of stale

cake on a cracked plate, even when a stray

grey hair is rising up out

of the morning’s dull uncombed

brown, the mirror’s nothing

but honest