The other house lives in the mirror;
I have caught it moving when I pass.
Turning over in a fitful sleep, the room trembles
And thins, and there I see it –
Full of shadows, half-lights, dreams
Tilted corners, doors which are never there
A chair of my old age squats over
The footstool I broke in childhood;
There are mirrors upon mirrors, broken shards
And gilded frames, crazy, blasted fragments
Reflecting omnipresent shades.
And I see my own face – yes –
There
Or not, only the figure
Of a man who wears a hat of shadows
Without a face beneath.
The Man Who Never Was
I never came to be
Yet I and he
Both haunt this world, and I confess
I dream that I am there
Of nights, and he embraces me –
I touch my mouth, my nose, my eyes
To find them not at all
And wake, to birds and morning,
my arms clasped round myself.
Wonderful, evocative, eerie.