Allergic to the looking glass,
I prefer outside promenade,
even in this settlement of people
living half a day above ground
and the rest somewhere down under.
I amble alone with many or none.
The pollens of the day mate
with the sun and the silhouette.
They link the ray with the shadow,
thoughts with too many of those.
The moment everything fits its shape
a siren whizzes past. The proclamation
about the nighttime curfew echoes us deaf.
My house is a mosaic of goodness and a Goddess.
Some nights I see myself in the furniture,
food, soft skin, moaning and rebuking,
in the hell and the divine.
I am allergic to the mirrors, I murmur.
Illustration Nick Victor