Am I come to this, a starker age
When I relinquish mirrors, their bevels, their beauties,
Their scars, their parties full of the loveliest
Strangers-their ghastly, unknown solitary?

Am I now less than my vision? Risen like smoke
To the ceiling, floating around with the gossip, dear,
Struggling to find myself-and who in the crowd
Will look for me beyond the chandelier?

I cloud, an abstract, hazy-blue suggestion.
Beneath me, the wine passes, and the canapés
Glisten on their polished silver barges
Like small answers to a larger question.