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What are those distorted smears of colour in the mirror ball? Are they people? Look closer. Yes. They are people. They are us. And there am I, a small pink smudge, an arched eyebrow … or perhaps not: retinal overload, a trick of the light. How do people make sense of themselves, and what do those splintered shafts of vari-coloured liquidity have to tell us about the skins they are bouncing off? Who knows. The speaker of these lines is himself caught up in the glare, garrulous in spite of the din. Mirrorball collects poems from 2004 to 2018.
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