“We're twins,” I said, the mirror looked horror struck my image turned and fled, profound is the indefinite glacial depth, the horrifying loneliness of a mirror that only sees itself.
A gardener wearing my shoes is pruning
a rosebush, while I'm a tree near the window,
living in fear of the logger's chain saw.
No image, I'll fall into a black hole of vacuity
and why is a hole always black? Can't it be red
or green? I'm a blue apostle, in a naïve painting,
forever walking on a lane flanked by fearful trees.