Salting the Slugs
We hoard years, putting other faces
in place of the one
filling the mirror, the slug-like
double chin thing of us
that comes out at night
and then stays in blazing sun.
How silently we tiptoe
with those concealed cylinders
of salt cocked and ready
to fall, to pour that
sweet white rain so soundlessly
onto the slug of us
as we wallow
in our waspishness, twist
in a diminishing dance
as we laugh at those
mirrors, knowing they lie
as we do.
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