The world behind the mirror
Was heartrendingly beautiful
And convulsively sad.

In it, the almost-gone beloved was always turning
A corner. His back in an overcoat.
Up front, a high wind was threatening

To upend the stage
And the players with it and bring the curtain down.
The cyclone would be worth the risk,

But if only
The world would look new again.
Dumb numbers gawked from the clock face.

The hole where the hands were
Supposed to be was empty
And endless. A bell tolled erratically

And never on the hour. Punishment was meted out
As it was supposed to be, too—