The green ceramic pitcher on the table is full of water from last night.

I am there to hold you, I think.

I am at a loss as to what that means, especially what it could mean.

A looking-glass stares back at me.

Gazing dead ahead on the bed

After dinner after dark,

A print in a frame on the wall perpendicular to the windows

Caught in a beam from the streetlight on the corner.

I tried to make out the images I already knew were in the picture.

I tried to pretend that that had no bearing on what I could define in the dark.



I was shaving the next morning when the bathroom mirror fell.

It fell into the sink and shattered.

I tried to complete my shaving in one of the pieces,

Turning it carefully to capture parts of my face in detail.

I decided to use another of the pieces to shave with instead of my razor.

I could not get all of my face.

The mirror had not been broken evenly.

I could not stop the many, many nicks from bleeding.

I died later that day.


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