It's no contest—every morning, light
fills this room much better
than I do,
makes even the cold tile
patterns look more
familiar
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
vacant—until,
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.
