of polished tables lit with medalled
torsos bent toward microphones
where ears lean hands scribble
“working the dark side”

—glazed eye meeting frozen eye—

This is not the room where tears run down carven
cheeks track rivulets in the scars
left by the gouging tool
where wood itself is weeping

where the ancient painted eye speaks to the living eye

This is the room
where truth scrubs around the pedestal of the toilet
flings her rag into the bucket
straightens up spits at the mirror