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Tony Barnstone

By This Poet


Lamp or Mirror

When strange light stirs the mirror, forces swirl 
  the shadows by the bathtub and I glimpse
    a figure standing glowing. As I rinse
      the toothpaste down the drain, his blind eye whirls
numinous white, his hair is moonlight streaming.
  I know neurologists have shown the course
    of dreaming as synaptic lines of force,
      and even in this dream I know I'm dreaming,
yet when the light refracts at such an angle
it shows his broken face, frost in his beard,
    his black lips mouthing words I only hear
      as moaning of an operatic angel.
His ice hand reaches out. I flinch in fear.
  The mirror breaks. I gasp awake. He's here.