Vision

A rose-red mask of china glistening
before me, perfect in its stillness, but for
the eyes—the living, watching eyes that seem
to do the work of many hidden tongues.
And in each eye, a pool around an open
pupil, the deeper into which I gaze
the more I can discern a spot of pink—
which grows into another rose-red mask.

A pair of eyes, and in each eye, another
pair of eyes; in each of them, again
a pair of eyes… And I could follow this
succession to an end that may not come.
Or maybe I could take the mask, reverse it,
and wear it on this alabaster face.