Is not the mirror the real wizard of the times?

When all I can see are others

Whose otherness suggests that them I can’t define

Cannot comprehend

Or cannot tame but with words and poems and artworks

Which, as cold symbols, are always cast aside

As failures to tell definite things.

Only things both pregnant and dense

Like the density of clay’s particles

Rendering its form munificent and easy to play with

And that pregnance – the copious forms

That can be made from it

 

.is not the mirror the real wizard of the times?

When I cannot see myself, t the lowest level,

Even at the literal level, but through

A mirror.

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