Mirror on the wall, whose face 
lies behind this mask? What doll, 

what cracked porcelain pride, dares 
ask after her now-lost youth? 
What etheric rot rises 
like exhaust into air 
from raw, open graves, 
smacking the blue sky, lacking 
filters for free breath — does vanity 
hold any cell…in this hell? 

She shall count her small crow’s feet 
and mine a smile to see them. 

Preview from my upcoming 2023 collection The Soul Without A Summer