for Pris

Walking past the darkened glass
I see myself going nowhere
fast. Time is a mirror,
and I am late, the mirror
says. Mind is a mirror, too,
and known only by reflection. The shops
are closed. In the window, I’ve become
another display, a moving picture
true to life as life is true
to mirrors. Eyes seem
to understand, but how much
can light be trusted? You’ve shown me
photographs. Light can’t be
explained, you said, but truth
is always naked, disguised (in mirrors,
or the mind) as reflection. What I see
changes. Your eyes, a mirror
from the start, tell me
who I am, make of nakedness
something to be trusted. Seeing,
at last believing.