My mirror hates me.
It holds a thousand little shadows and black
holes and windows which gape, open wide
for all too see.
I am easy to read, but hard to write.
The tussle of the rippling skin writhing with life
Placed so delicately upon my sineous soul,
A sheet of dried leaf to seperate the inside from
The little spots of green are tossed
in a storm of time until the autumn takes them,
And removes the ripeness of the senses.
Yellow specks freckle my eyes and coincide
with stars, which reflect back to
The mirror laughs, but I do not.