Kate Colby
Four Reflections


Claptrap reflections, or nothing lies
the first time around.

In binocular trafficking of pools
in badlands shadow
pinhole flats
a lightning

field of


Rosetta stone of desert floor
draws vapor clouds and mesas,
cataracts of exile,
where firmament meets figuration
in tablature of erasure.

             The golden calf melts into its reflection;
             is this a genesis or third refraction?

Coming down from the mount,
Moses cups water in his hands.
He sees the people in it.


Reflections as aphasia, where
distortion parts seas.

A hothouse of cell walls distended
with chlorophyll, unconsummated,
these dead-
ended intentions.

And this light like fireflies
battering cupped hands.
Pinholes of tiny eclipses.


Your letters read like crop circles
in a boundless field of green.

Or, on a glassy sea a ship runs into a rock.
The sky a boundless blue screen, flickering,
these intonations of immortality.
And our skin crawls
with mites,
which we brush off in favor of;

such that, peering over the edge,
the mirroring sea becomes us.

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