It is yourself you
In a long rage,
Scanning through light and
Mirrors, the page,
Where should reflected
Those eyes and that thick hair,
That passionate look, that laughter.
You should
Within the book, or doubled,
Freed, in the silvered glass;
Into all other
Yourself should pass.
The glass does not dissolve;
Like walls the mirrors stand;
The printed page gives
Words by another hand.
And your infatuate
Meets not itself below;
Strangers lie in your
As I lie now.
