I am not a mirror,
a reflection formed
in images I walk within.
I am lost in the projections
along my surfaces, vague
and inchoate like smoke.
I am not a window
where a stranger
in the street may watch
the pedestrian drama
of my life’s denouement.
I am a sack-cloth bag
stuffed with cliches.
I slip my hand in
to find tattered masks
which fall to dust
as I drape them solemnly
across my skin.
(February 2, 2024)
subtext 