That must be my body
in that mirror, that nest
of misdirections;

here, what looks like 
a too-short
bindle of twigs;

there, something more like 
a poorly daubed
mud cluster.

Hard to apprehend the whole
when such fragments 
compel so strongly.

There in the mirror
what I think is a reflection of me
stares back piecemeal.

Then again? This is not my mirror.
My own’s covered up
behind my bedroom door. 

I don’t look at it much.
I only see mirrors in
the homes of others. 

If a mirror’s accuracy
is changed
by its provenance,

how am I changed
in relation to wherever
I happen to find myself?