Howard Firkin
Behind the mirror, small, among the shoes,
beneath the jackets, dark, is space for me:
too cedar dark to be seen or to see—
invisible rescinds the need to choose.
I’m four and old enough to know to hide.
In here where space collapses on itself
the self itself collapses atom small,
a pinpoint in the nothing of the all,
a mote of dust upon an empty shelf.
The infinite is extant here, inside.

The now forgotten man, still wardrobe blind,
still-hearted still between each secret beat…
The airless dark extends to fill my mind
and hide me, and my hiding is complete.