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?
