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ISSUE:  Autumn 1977

This morning, today,
Written across the glass,
But backwards, readable
Only from inside,

In something like lipstick
But without color,
The color glass would take
If it saw nothing

To reflect, the shade
Someone would be

Who came to the glass
And could see no
Answering image,
No one standing here
Where I am
Standing, trying
To read these words

Why do you persecute me?


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