Inside the Houses of Other

He is Blot

it is a name

and down the street

he walks with

his name to a

house of timber

frame with a door

of mirrored glass

that he raps.

The quavering pane

buzzes Blot’s reflected

edges turning

temporarily to mud.

Highest definition

of self then resurrected

an aquiline vision comes

twinkling out of the

stiff staring well at

the front of the house

by the corded bell

he didn’t notice.

His body is many

predated little creatures

he tracks—each

he knows and smiles at

from flight high

over this mirror

his empyrean head

lofts always over

every mirror welling

like quicksilver kettle

holes one after another

sending back Blot

tilting his shades

or Frenching a smoke

or Blot naked

admiring the quilled

vasculature of his

mammalian wings.

The bird of prey

surveying its own

body is the child

Moses fondling rushes

tufting by the bend

awaiting the one

who will take to him

the architect’s own concept

and relish the saw work

the sanding and the

double coat. Blot

craves only an eye

a Cyclops all head

and no body. The

mirror swings suddenly

inward and the

frame blinks a black

lid ruptured by

a silver shooting

pit bull gnashing

artifice to spark

Blot hauled like metal

hanging from a bus’s

underside to the curb

and left possumed in

the dark rush of cars

no taller than bolted

hubs inch-near

in passing