Glass for the Looking
And daybreak lifts from the Pacific
Like tracing paper from a hairdryer
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
Reacquainted with a rusting fringe,
Flames for eyelashes
A dribbling of gulls across the skyline —
Gunned down from sight at sundown.
Kindling has evaded all eyes of this day
Eyelashes have entered
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
A glass of truth nor self-reflection.