The smooth icy surface of every glass yawns back
a room, and in the room, a girl, sharp angles and vivid
color and motion move back and further
back and still forefront a girl
whose still and placid features belie the rippling of
time behind
which
which
which
is true
the image
or
the subject
to protect
to
pro
ject
she gathers folds of liquid around herself
as though
she could cloak
dampen
dispel or hide
the hysteria of not
recognizing her own vividly manufactured
kohl-lined eyes and red-lipped smile because every
silver-backed glass proves only
the finite distance between
glossy brilliance
and the nearly invisible
way she ducks into grief-
it billows softly for a moment
settles just below the surface of her eyes
Payne's grey drifting always nearer
Claret.
