Brightly it gapes at the room. Nothing can argue the glass
out of its passive (but wait: impassive, call it) alert,
ready and able to mate doubles in pitiless pairs,
mimicking background as well, fixed in its quicksilver depth.
Threatened by such unappeased ardor to match what appears
with a relentlessly true witness to each crooked seam,
blemish or wrinkle or stain? Switch off the light and reflect:
all that the mirror can show cannot correctly portray
which is your right or your left. Nor can it see much beyond
frame-edge, or back of your eyes. Here, as the Book says, we see
through a glass, darkly, and no image reveals what it veils.
So it may be, but the peace drawn from such dicta is faint.
Catching your twin by surprise, there in his face is a sad
look that is equally yours, longing for something unseen.
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