| |
At the very top of the pane, your contortion is difficult to believe in, the somehow of its flatness not in any keeping with known disavowals of roundness.
The stilled liquid of glass – hardly a lens; hardly a focusing – twists and ripples your image, especially seen from askance. You are become paper cut-out, so brilliantly luring white you reach into sleep.
Later, very later, you are floating, a flat distorted face;
Sideways clown. |
|