Upon the short edge of our sleeping eye
Where Pan, the playful god would once reside
There’s a reflection of the open wide
Shut in the glass that lies upon the wall.
Out of the confines of the mind
And by all earthly principles, outside.
Under the rent moon’s feeble, prying gaze –
An equal, dim, but unrelenting gleam,
We hide, reflecting, and we seem
To be what leaves the window’s square.
A where without a when to pair,
A right whose left is out of sight.