the other mirror i only know of your glassy nature when i blow, and breath condenses on your face, half- shaven, you hold the razor sharp under chin. as in a funhouse mirror, my soft kisses are reflected as running water — you turn on the faucet. in the rising steam, finger-scribed words appear: "could you lay off my face, i'm shaving." In the other mirror, behind yours, you see a speckle-faced female, reproduced in an infinite series, standing in the long corridor of your bathroom: like your heart's space of her, infinite. She is facing the mirror, brushing her tangled, showered hair. As your fingers reach to caress her cheek, her reflection is in brushstrokes — she retreats and tosses her hair. The blowdryer mixes her words: "Can't see you, my brushing i'm hair." one morning you are holding my hand. you point at a thick, long swatch of cotton, laid against the wall. "i stand behind this every day," you say. "i stand behind it and try to see you, try to touch you, try to talk to you. but my intentions reflect back into this room." lifting a corner of the swatch, i see a corner of the mirror reflecting the room — without us.