VANITY THY NAME IS WOMAN
display of hand mirror
against a larger round glass
at a quick glance
the hand mirrors could
be flowers tearing
toward water. Snow
and amber petals
hang in the air
floating like bodies
on air that is a
pool. We're moving
under them. They
are somehow us and
not us, a quiver
and an eye or lip
is gone, they hover
like hands pressed
to a forehead in
night. Some are
blank as certain
eyes looking away,
dissolve like kites
you let go of
that still flicker,
small and comforting
as night lights
or the moon