A wicked pane of glass
or perhaps of neck and mind
through which the only thing that’s seen
is the usual odyssey of muted gray and green
Birds chirp, as, you know, they do
While Mother’s clicking in the second room resumes
And I, meanwhile, still, lie
in a reflected chamber
and, still, vaguely wish to die
It’s a sentiment, nothing more
though I’ve entertained its better elders many times before
But poppies still force serene
and I gaze though pained through panes
at what inside, out I have forever seen
