The Blue Mouth Under the Floor

Polish the surface until strangers
see only their own faces in it.

Leave the centre unmarked.
That is where the pressure keeps its tools:
a file, a hinge, a vein of blue stone,
the mouth opening under the floor.

Do not call the quiet empty.
Some silences are workshops.
Some fragile things are only disguises
for the force learning its name.

When the light reaches the bottom,
the blue mouth closes around it.
What rises is not light,
but the weight of having seen.