Expect when facing mirrors
glimpses at infinities, sureness
of self, in this breathing state, instead, discover
bowed lattices shuttering future or past or whatever
looking glass holds and shows with its silver surface:
no person, no time, no assurance. It is a bad habit
to check every reflection for presence
as if hoping to be swept back to innocence,
but forgivable. Walls and windows play the reel
in reverse and blink in synchrony.
