He's snagged by the mirror, and while
her acne's wavered, her mind and
their eyes
are both on the bend. 

I'm sat in a white room
for the fiftieth time.
And that's not so many,
but the people are such
listless zealots.
And the walls peel back, revealing
what I will never see.

His thoughts cling closer to Mercury than Earth
when her eyes are on torpid fields
they hope will bite
and deliver them 
past Pluto.

Driving up, I saw an angel
with burning locks
and wrinkles.
I could wonder how angels age,
but her looks lasered
a cord above my head
and I had met her before.

The prognosis holds calf eyes will meet his
for the rest of her life.
And the bend snaps their mangy tether,
so they drift
between the ground and the clouds.

If you would quit looking, I promise
the world responds to me,
not the other way.