For Aaron Poochigian
This wall of glass
Holds all that we may see of truth,
Compacting depths to surfaces that pass
Before us like a twirl of dress or chin
Grown stout and grizzled, when lost youth
Reflects in skin.
So many turn
Away from what they would deny,
But then glance back, as if some urge to learn
Our shining imperfections had possessed us;
We lean close till they fill the eye
And have undressed us.
So, who could blame
False Rita Hayworth with her gun,
Who, multiplied in funhouse mirrors, takes aim
And shatters glass as if it all were lies,
Her liberty, alas, undone
With its demise?
Ago, the early scientists
Marked how appearances seemed treacheries
Something to Consider
If you enjoyed this article, we have a proposition for you: Join NRPLUS. Members get all of our content (including the magazine), no paywalls or content meters, an advertising-minimal experience, and unique access to our writers and editors (conference calls, social-media groups, etc.). And importantly, NRPLUS members help keep NR going. Consider it?
If you enjoyed this article, and were stimulated by its contents, we have a proposition for you: Join NRPLUS.