I find there is a certain frailty 

to the image of my reflection 

As though every mirror 

was as clear as muddy water, 

my eyes, like flat rocks 

that skip across the surface 

 

Who are the people in the puddle? 

As I step and rings erupt around 

I split into a thousand faces, 

each of them mine, but warped 

Is that me? To any onlookers, 

these distortions are recognized 

as hardly any different 

 

But I see a million strangers, 

however close to me 

No single image will ever align 

exactly with reality.