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

where, still, the supernatural corps de ballet

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.