NOW DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT
HEAVEN IS IT IS THE SURROUND OF THE LIVING
You’d expect a certain view from such a mirror—
than one which hangs in the entry and decays.
past my reflection toward other things:
burnt-gold upon blue, which decorate the wall
those objects collected from travels, now seen
its great gold frame, diminished with age:
where, still, the supernatural corps-de-ballet
its masquerade in the reflected light.
I thought I’d see the faces of the dead.
the faces of the ghosted silver sea
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 31 Number 5, on page 46
Copyright © 2018 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com