seen through like a map
of the underground,
a perfect web of blue and red
we are easily observed,
heads filled with empty plains
or bellies of pig lust
so let me, at least, serve you
as a bottle of milk warming on
a doorstep as pigeons wake
or as a bomb-site mirror
forgotten and brick eyed with dust,
breezed by a newspaper in flight;
unnoticed, I fail to reflect the truth,
a stranger passing a glass door,
myself alone, a face of age.