On the other side of reflected frames,
I’m wondering if my body is stood where it’s seen
or if I’ve been caught in a wake’s drift,
tugged into somewhere seen in imagination alone
where there are coffee stains on the table and soft lighting,
laughing out strings of stories from unchecked time
as two travelers color in empty frontiers kept hidden in passing years.
From a seat at the table,
I’m wondering if you’d open to see the opposite end of an eyeglass,
or if a locked edifice would be the lasting impression I’m to be given.
Performing a manic dance simply for that tangible glance sneaking out of reflected frames,
the rhythm played out to an expired tune damned off a heartbeat’s radio,
humming dully to the pace of an accelerated rate;
the same graces I learned copying your ballet,
where I’d brush against and feel a key slip into my breast.
The clutter in my pocket’s rusted to an indecipherable mess,
and in its indifferent stare there was I likeness I feared to see,
as if my body was stood in the palm of my hand
but my mind was bailed into a life boat,
coasting on the edges of Bermuda to find truth in a dead end,
scouring myths for reason when the facts are confined to numbers,
and in between the odds and evens is an eternal gray where no answer reaches.
Where to would you have me tap on your memory?
On the other end of reflected frames,
are you to block me off the stage
with the diminishing reverberations of our tangled skin the sole ring?
Are you to push my body back to where its mind rests,
nestled in the embers of a soothing remembrance,
where any hint of your looking my way feeds the coals?
I’ll tend to this camp until the monitor is out of tune.
I’ll try to shake the debris out of my head.
Your rhythm remains trapped inside.
( ❤ Mitch)