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.