Is not the mirror the real wizard of the times?
When all I can see are others
Whose otherness suggests that them I can’t define
Or cannot tame but with words and poems and artworks
Which, as cold symbols, are always cast aside
As failures to tell definite things.
Only things both pregnant and dense
Like the density of clay’s particles
Rendering its form munificent and easy to play with
And that pregnance – the copious forms
That can be made from it
.is not the mirror the real wizard of the times?
When I cannot see myself, t the lowest level,
Even at the literal level, but through