Glass Man Poem by Leslie Philibert

seen through like a map
of the underground,
a perfect web of red and blue;

we are easily observed
heads filled with empty plains
or bellies stocked with pig lust;

so let me, at least, serve you,
as a bottle of milk warming on
a doorstep as pigeons wake

or as a bomb-site mirror,
forgotten and brick eyed with dust,
breezed by a newspaper in flight;

unnoticed, I fail to reflect the truth,
a stranger passing through a glass door,
myself alone, a face of age