Nearsight

It is with his mirror he reconstructs 



the passage



of time. 



The warden walks from the north



wall to the south



one time every hour. Cannot



hear his approach—too loud



with the flushing, the



slamming echoes 



of the two—but can



see it in mirrors



if held here like this



yes, only if you are outside 



can you look in, only with 



a mirror can you look out.



The forcing of myopia 



through the frosting of 



glass windows.



 



It is with his mirror he waits, thinks,



“is there such a thing



as normal when I am 



a person, people have teeth,



and I am not entitled to them?”



Just wants teeth to not 



hiss when speaks, so can



be heard, understood.



They say you will



die anyway, what need 



you teeth for—to atone,



to whet a blade for carving?



 



It is with his mirror he shows  



a creation: thirty-two gamepieces,



and a board. Carved of soap,



dyed with pen. 



It is with his mirror he counts backwards,



inducts backwards,



comes to the chill



that comes of it.



It is with his mirror he sees a nick 



and blood. Cut himself



shaving because the present 



 



is closer to him



than he could see



is closer to him



than to anyone



else I know. It absorbs 



him as a blanket 



facing wind. There is 



no wind here 



nor any toy or string to wind, find



wound. But there is a wound where 



the selves in mirror



are closer than they appear.