Reflections Through a Broken Mirror ~ Danny Cassidy

That the body can conduct its choir

of heavy robes  the concert of the mind

winter branches budding into praise

& the coda opens
its mouth
of longing—

in wait for the arms to drop.


Can the soul labor righteously?

If not, is the righteous
soul merely idle

ornament of resistance

until in the grasp
of his palm

made useful–

as in the grape hyacinths

finally bloomed
and stripped
of its fruit

by a child’s restless wonder.


How do we talk
of it, or measure
its tire?

Cracked shell.
Shore arched back

with the tide
(as if the rind

of our earth peeled.)
Calloused hand.

Autumn leaf.
A shattered bulb.

How we praise
the body adorned
with labor:

muscle finally
a form of gauze,


what must
be a wound.


How wrongly we have mapped our journey.

The false north stars /   you who

shouted chaos and the earth coiled

its tongue / As if somewhere a window

had shattered  /  the river

a stream of  glass / cutting  light,

bleeding with it,  think moth /

( wings soft oars wading through

the plum pond of night ) / how sharp

their want  at the lip of the bulb.

O  gather eternity, its wax /and oils,

make a wick of this broken earth.

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