It figures we'd
go looking—
like overeager,
overnight
apprentices
to soothsayers—
into every dingy
puddle we can find
on the street,
convinced
by our dark and
anemic reflections
that we just glimpsed,
in our faces,
some terrifying truth.
Instead of such
close scrutiny
of what we seem to be,
perhaps we should focus
on what we've just
been doing: namely,
closing our eyes
to the violence
and tragedy—
to the doubt and self-deceit
which turn curiosity
to grief—
and hoping,
when we sneak
up on the next wet,
warped reflection,
that we'll finally see
nothing
whatsoever staring
shamefaced
from the water—
what a neat
magic trick; what
a relief.
