The Reflected Projection Poem by Richard Weissman

There amidst adrenal-driving, pain-screeching subway he unfurls his colors - reeking of death,
And I, in the fear-stained, subterranean, lightless waking nightmare,
I wonder,
Will he bleed my veins with a ganged-cold blade?
Rape me with his infectious, death-hot piece?
Blow out my life's breath with flinching thirty-eight fingers?
-Insane, Desperate, Murderous-
If he views me the same I'll soon be home,
And once there, try to wash 'til clean,
Clean of the reflected projection.

From, "Voices of the Dark" (1991)