Three “Invisible String” poems (after Jim Moore)

I do not like 

polishing the tea pots.
	My face, already 
		grotesque, reflected, distorted 
	even more in their surface.


I have nine books

borrowed from the library.
	Still, I am reading the one
		new book of poems
	I found at the thrift store.


We don’t know

the length, the breadth,
	the width, the height,  
		and certainly not the depth 
	of our unknowing.