Morning, Europa

We hung a thousand ribbons of glass
in the giant-shadowed sky
Dreaming ends, day's new fire, reflection
of our children's children's faces
in that sea.

Office Complex, 13th Floor

The protocol is not to notice that the walls
are mirrored, not to stare or steal a glimpse
as you walk along the many-times reflected
hall or stand stiff and wary with your replicated
self amongst the elevator's crowd. Last time
someone did, he gazed too long; all we could do
was leave him till he finally died and dried up,
and then we swept the dust and clothes away.
Oddly, others came and went each day but never
paid attention to the sighing man, or later,
to the drying corpse huddled in the mirrored
corner. They were occupied, as usual, with
the lure of their peripheral egos, slyly
watched with quick, admiring, furtive eyes.

Mice Over Fallen Mirrors

Here,
people have been gone so long
that mirrors, exhausted of purpose,
lie on the floor in silvery pools.

When the mice scurry over them,
something rises and snaps at them
like fish after food scattered
on feeding ponds.

On the far side of the room,
washed up on a distant shore,
the tiny skeletons stand
windchimes shaking
in no wind.