Leslie Philibert Poet Blank verse

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

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