In The Prism

In The Prism

 

In the prism,

quivering in liquid replication,

spangles each wrinkle, wart, 

linear placement of the face’s edge.

Each gleam 

and freshening wink of the replenished eye, 

each refracting facet, each dimpled moment 

bears back another face 

nebulous, repeated.

We meet with yet

another show of force 

striking in plosive shatters 

where face contradicts face,

making soundless endless

divided duplications redivide,

beaming outward

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

September 1986

 

substantially revised 

February 2011

Posted for OneShotWednesday at the inimitable OneStopPoetry