The First Real Transition

oh. look some
one has taken all the mirrors from the hotel by the highway and has dropped them across the empty lot. it is over
grown and there is a tangle of violets where my reddened face is unresponsive. is flexing where my eyes are or my mouth. I am in this field. I knew
the man who took the mirrors because. oh. the hotel is standing in the path
of the highway trucks or the horses who have died in the wars. they are trying to go home because all we
are trying to do is go home and I have fallen down to my knees not
as a cathedral or an old wooden church where the pastor is living in the back
room because the older house burnt down long ago
(it is always long ago isn't it? oh. oh no well now is not long ago tho' the insects and the dogs barking robustly from across the searing interstate are trying to make this moment timeless they
are not succeeding. they are trying. I can commend them for that much.)
but on top of glass that has
cracked only has not broken and the man who took the mirrors from the hotel would have fallen harder and. oh. he has. look at that where the violets and the other tangled hot field flowers
are tired of regrowing and regrowing and (yes) there is one reflection missing so that my face
is not my face at all but
an eye. a shaving of ragged mouth that far away from the ground where a cloud is perplexed I cannot say that
I am
or not smiling
oh. I have slipped. some one---
I think I may have dropped my theme back along the highway where as a less and frightened child the thick of my prose chased away any thin silver poetry. some
thing like this. the man who took all the mirrors from the hotel down that road had a flower once which had a name he had forgotten and a species he had never known and some
meaning in Latin he had learned long since
the flower was once broken by a car ride fifteen days north and fifteen hours south when he
as a child
understood little in the way of quotations or how light refracted light
to make glass little than glass and much more (physically speaking) than sand, that in the heat of things he
grabbed all the mirrors from the hotel room and the other
rooms left unlocked loaded
them in his truck bed and drove them
to this field. oh. that was a story I was not told as I stand here and find myself in places not overgrown as thickly with morning glories writing sonnets over themselves the medium of
blackened soil and pine shadows
should be some
thing he has written but his hands are bandaged. bloody. after all carrying those mirrors takes much out of a person enough to sit by himself for a while laughing over a black and white photograph of a smiling murderer
or colors
turning into literary characters:

this is one poem
from a field
that no
one planted nor any
one has returned to in a while
cutting their bare legs with greenvine or the trees
that were once
begun and ended
and one
might look down to find that they are walking on sky and themselves and the underside of roughened

he came all the way down the road to prove a point
but the flowers have grown any
how and his hands are feeling better to
day. oh. and he can see himself much better
in the brighter paint where some
thing once