Inside the Houses of Other

He is Blot



it is a name



and down the street



he walks with



his name to a



house of timber



frame with a door



of mirrored glass



that he raps.



The quavering pane



buzzes Blot’s reflected



edges turning



temporarily to mud.



Highest definition



of self then resurrected



an aquiline vision comes



twinkling out of the



stiff staring well at



the front of the house



by the corded bell



he didn’t notice.



His body is many



predated little creatures



he tracks—each



he knows and smiles at



from flight high



over this mirror



his empyrean head



lofts always over



every mirror welling



like quicksilver kettle



holes one after another



sending back Blot



tilting his shades



or Frenching a smoke



or Blot naked



admiring the quilled



vasculature of his



mammalian wings.



The bird of prey



surveying its own



body is the child



Moses fondling rushes



tufting by the bend



awaiting the one



who will take to him



the architect’s own concept



and relish the saw work



the sanding and the



double coat. Blot



craves only an eye



a Cyclops all head



and no body. The



mirror swings suddenly



inward and the



frame blinks a black



lid ruptured by



a silver shooting



pit bull gnashing



artifice to spark



Blot hauled like metal



hanging from a bus’s



underside to the curb



and left possumed in



the dark rush of cars



no taller than bolted



hubs inch-near



in passing