These bleary morning eyes are not mine,
that watch the left hand comb
a parting on the other side.
The face with which I greet the day,
still pink from shaving,
specked with soap and blood,
is not the face behind steamed up glass.
I am not upside down
inside my breakfast spoon,
nor a tannic ripple
drowning in a cup of tea.
As I kiss my love goodbye,
the blink of eyelids
does not trap me in a convex pool.
I do not stalk myself
in unlit shopping mall windows,
or flit between puddles
that capture clouds upon the pavement.
Nor do I sit inside this screen,
as I wait for a logon logo
to illuminate my desktop.
I am not there behind the glass,
but here, where all is sensory
and what I see is never me,
but a lateral inversion.
In the flash of a shiny surface,
what is caught in two dimensions
is the glare of my own headlights.
