Toward the mirror, closer still,
she steps, and holds
her breath—holding at once
desire and start.
Isn’t it a perfect hermetic
element—clear, polished,
just enough—to let the light
fold back and reach
the seeing darkness of her eye,
and thus—to pierce her
with an image, her own dart?
Is this how soul and heart
grow a face in place of a map,
until a glance can seize the depth?
