BEADS OF RAIN

Each day I’ve looked

into the beveled mirror

on this desk, vainly

asking it questions

reflection cannot answer.

Outside, fog and frost

and silver olive leaves.

I can see at most

a half field’s depth,

then the trees are lost

in the gauzy mist

like thin unbraceleted arms

swallowed by billowing sleeves.

I’d like to face

that stringent looking glass

transparent to myself

as beads of rain

pooled on a green leaf.

But ever self-composed

in self-regard,

and my eyes opaque

as a dancer’s leotard,

to see straight through myself

I need what love supplies:

its dark arrow, dear,

not its white lies.