Mirrors Not Worth Reading

It’s an odd hope, maybe,
That what alarms you won’t
Prevent you from getting

Better at recording
What alarms you so much.
You’re dreaming a graveyard,

A library of stones
With haunting things to read
In a millennium,

But some days you survey
What you’ve carved and planted
And think, These are just stones

Cropping up in the field
Of a farmer who’d love
To be rid of these rocks.

Oft thought, oft said, oft shoved
Back under, to the side,
What could console someone,

Be the treasured touchstone
That soothes fear of the world
In this heap of rubble?