Things are always slipping on themselves,
Falling over the glassy countenance of their exteriors,
Expressing an outside that mellows and glints in the light,
And it blinds us and keeps the dark within hidden from our eyes
Like water keeps its secrets in bridges and automobiles.

If I could I would strip appearances with my hands,
Chew them off with my teeth or scratch them out under nails;
I think I would see something squirming underneath,
Earth-worms up-turned and struggling
Back through the dark dirt.

But how am I to go under a bright blue
Dish with paintings of pagodas and cranes
Plucking flesh from streams
In the forests of slivering blue?

Only in apprehension,
Held to the shadow of guests
Can the circle close
Over the steaming cuts
And colored sauces
Passing below the bridge.