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Mirror
Richie Hofmann
You'd expect a certain view from such a mirror --
clearer
than one that hangs in the entry and decays.
I gaze
past my reflection toward other things:
bat wings,
burnt gold upon blue, which decorate the wall
and all
those objects collected from travels, now seen
between
its great, gold frame, diminished with age:
a stage
displays
its masquerade in the reflected light.
At night,
I thought I'd see the faces of the dead.
Instead,
the faces of the ghosted silver sea
saw me.
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