Some see a man, some
A shell with cratered eyes.
The rinds in the bottom of the soap dish.
We watch it like
The spider under the kitchen sink -
The awe of something so far removed,
So far right in front of us,
A modesty unnoticed
Under the gravel.
A life in a way
That is the water to our oil.
And then we step on it
Or we smother it
Or crush it with our finger
And breathe the relief
As it spins down,
Away into the drain.
A half-faded, half-torn sign
Fashioned from a refrigerator box
His fingers bleed from the edges
And the flesh hangs in whitened strips
From the shards of a cardboard mirror.
Reading without words –
The pocket that affords no bread
Affords a voice just the same -
In a blinding reflection
"I am your hatred defined."