45*21

I spread the Parmesan on my right hand
The head is large because then night gets larger
As if you were the project of the painter, an unknown
advertisement that lead to a pain, but the beams
of fur that run together along the joist
are but an effacement to all that knowledge
like the joke about the hand of God
Except we don't get squashed but pampered
or sequestered by our own self portrait
in a convex mirror there may be no barbers cutting hair
a cord of balled wood that was delivered at midnight
to turn and divide the halves into quarters
the mirror was brought to a knave and he was quartered
with great art his leg was sawed like glass
mostly just an image which to make the portrait
in reflection, always removed
the glaze of the sun's embalming
the light that is dense and the day that is time
adhering to the face that keeps the watch
a wave of recurring life
and the arrival of the self as itself