with a million mirror-fragment
momentary diamonds, turning
concrete and homeless-huddle
tarps and my old leather jacket
to things of vanishing sylvan
beauty, like the faces I glimpsed
as a child in the last of the ancient
New England woods, Sidhe ladies
dancing in the corner of the eye
until too-adult, world-stained hands
sweep raindrops from my jacket,
shattering a thousand worlds
like the glass of empty windows
I wander past.
I remember that eyes belong to the soul
and shiver as I sense upon me the gaze
of house after factory after inscrutable
tower, doll-glass eyes shattered in
for unknowable purpose,
myths rising out of the rain.
Nicholas Shipman is a poet originally from Boston who now resides in Richmond, Virginia.