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
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