Glass for the Looking And daybreak lifts from the Pacific Like tracing paper from a hairdryer Low setting. There is not any living object Of this world that turns to you, Your honeycomb tiles In your desert/dessert—depends what day it is—citadel. Marram grass like wind-bent strands Of floss coloured olive gesticulate to a High tide Reacquainted with a rusting fringe, Flames for eyelashes Medium burn. A dribbling of gulls across the skyline — Gunned down from sight at sundown. Kindling has evaded all eyes of this day Eyelashes have entered Begrimed brown, Toes made unlovely Like those on ends of foot-bound quondam souls. Panache of catwalk like hollow death. I saw it all Or did I? A seascape for threadbare eyes looking out The window Of neither A glass of truth nor self-reflection. Then what?