The furies are at home
in the mirror; it is their address.
Even the clearest water,
if deep enough can drown.
 
Never think to surprise them.
Your face approaching ever
so friendly is the white flag
they ignore. There is no truce
 
with the furies. A mirror’s temperature
is always at zero. It is ice
in the veins. Its camera
is an X—ray. It is a chalice
 
held out to you in
silent communion, where gaspingly
you partake of a shifting
identity never your own.

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