Wednesday, January 15, 2020


It's no contest—every morning, light
fills this room much better
than I do,

makes even the cold tile
patterns look more

than that copy of me who
slowly enters, avarice
still numbed;

who always woozily refuses
to be the container,
even as

he grows larger, sharper-
cornered, and more

slightly confused, he'll start to pull
back a little from
the mirror.

Still, he usually does not look
quite as shocked as I
think he ought to.