In The Prism
In the prism,
quivering in liquid replication,
spangles each wrinkle, wart,
linear placement of the face’s edge.
and freshening wink of the replenished eye,
each refracting facet, each dimpled moment
bears back another face
We meet with yet
another show of force
striking in plosive shatters
where face contradicts face,
making soundless endless
divided duplications redivide,
as we enter ourselves like light
into the expanding prism.
This is how it goes here;
units replace and contradict the spirit numbers.
The soul-eyed stag ghosts inside the glacier
but the hunter no longer eats of that meat
though he craves and hunts it
down the fractured paths both night and day.
Jaws grinding, he peers but only sees
glamoured in the prism
the dolls of his insignificant whims.
But what do we know of these?
We know only the feel
of tight knuckles on the wheel,
the flickering kiss of the pipe,
the unrobing black way
before us where two lights are one
piercing the night road
into the prism