POEM

    We are all
    wondrously cracked
                   mirrors: 

      Take the quicksilver
                    out of the back 
                           & it makes a window
                  out of each of us—

           fleeting clouds
                          in our pores,
             
                                   & thus
    like recollections
                     long vanished,

               we are like
                      the swooning trees
           that are in search of birds.