Friday, July 25, 2014

NARCISSUS THIRSTY

Scooped-
up tight 
and rescued—ice-

cold 
from a rippling 
but mellow silver pool;

this—
must be what
my soul 
really looks like—a perfectly

strange and 
empty 
kind of fullness

for a flash of a second—

oblique and expunged 
of all 
but the most personal 
of pronouns—

the most beautiful 
of all 
the beauties

alone reflects back 
up at me—here in the shallow

hollow of my 
cupped wet hand.

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