Issue#1: Oct. - Dec. 2002

We are kids, we are told
once not to touch
the surface of a mirror.


And the mirror is still,
and each morning my reflection
stills before it, against your image,


as your reason sits you behind, without
a word, by your own pool you have
yet to conjure up the name of.


For you would rather not see
what you cannot name - feeling
of your vision cupped in your palms.


To see you like this, sound, thinking, is to feel
a thumb down your body, shattering the safe.