Whose eyes peer over the glass,
Brown as earth, steady as blood
thumping through a healthy heart?
Art flies in the face of fashion,
The maker’s fingers trembling,
Hysterical at the touch of God.
Sod we were, are, sod we’ll be.
Between the womb and the tomb
A few chances, if we’re lucky, come.
Some nights the sky hovers,
sentient yet impotent, reflected
in a glass, our blood, our heart.
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