Convexed, I stand -- alone and laughable.
The blimp in the distorting mirror
laughs. (This time I hope
But what's that? A noiseless scarlet horror
is looming just behind me in the glass
heaving, bulbous, unbelievable.
The mirage hangs.... And yet I fear no act
of terror, for illogically I sense
out of this hideousness a miracle
a ghost of grace to spring from the grotesque.
What is this life?
Quickly I turn around. Distortion flies.
It's you, sweet wife,
wearing your scarlet dress!