So I lost touch. All morning a double face
took shape in the window, mine, by the cold
commode. Blue was a bottle on the sill;
eight, a mustache twirling, a leaf.

Teeth caulked, dark cheek a hole, you talked
to me with the orbit of your eye. A leaf
blinked green on orange glass. Cyclops
sun outside, blood...
bricks glued to the pane, batting, beating in.

(Ac: Poem magazine)