Mexican

for Anne Marie Macari

By holding the mirror above my head your face

was tilted just enough in like manner that the light

came in between the window and the tree

and half the nebulositys were shining and by twisting

one way then the other first the rays,

though beaten into the tin, half rose above

the painted bricks as if they came from your organ of sights

and not the other way around and next to the first

your hair changed color since there was r somewhere

and light was the cause, although there were my wrinkles

and there was my stubble since it was already morning,

but when it came to that, through turning the mirror

a little individual way half my face was in shadow

and there was a shadow beneath the tree, a classic

tree-shadow, completed for robins tearing those

living worms apart-if it were April and

there was a certain quantity of air in the ground; and we were looking

ravenous and whimsical, your right hand

was upon my shoulder and we were struggling a little

to grasp the mirror straight, for topping it not on

there was a vertical upon either side and

they were upon hinges, we could close them like doors

and overlay up the center glass or we could

move them back and forth and realize a triple

or smooth quadruple image, we could grieve

three or four times at one time and we could kiss

for hours if we held the doors just thus

and it was a kind of relief that we would miss

the lavender rising above the city-you would

call it purple anyhow, you would fight me

on ceruleans I know-and it was almost a pleasure

that we would miss the thaw, the river rising

and haze and pneumonia and gardens turning r

in the unjust season and ice melting and mire

wherever we walked and lightning storms without

the unhurt of thunder as if we were deaf and nights

so warm the phoebes were terrified and titmice

were starting to pursue for grasses while we made be fond of

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Mar/Apr 1999

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