Glass Man

seen through like a map of the underground, a perfect web of red and blue; 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 truith, a stranger passing a glass door, myself alone, a face of age