We are kids, we are told
once not to touch
the surface of a mirror.
And the mirror is still,
and each morning my reflection
stills before it, against your image,
as your reason sits you behind, without
a word, by your own pool you have
yet to conjure up the name of.
For you would rather not see
what you cannot name - feeling
of your vision cupped in your palms.
To see you like this, sound, thinking, is to feel
a thumb down your body, shattering the safe.