I put the mirror on the ground and at once the ground
became mirror-shaped sky. Then I was both places (at once),
like the ever-line where the sky feeds the sea, wandering
in a kind of exile—exile: an old word—from myself.
The mind forms a metaphor; the metaphor, a form of mind.
The mirror (is) on the ground: the ground is infinite there:
My love is a red, red rose. My love is the cello’s long-held
note in a minor key. My love is your fast-fleeting laughter falling
off into silence. The half-moon seen between the high rises.
The sky searching in the mirror (on the ground) for its image.