as a gray sky passing
born good independent and equal
through stormclouds,
that draw me from myself
When I look in the mirror
my privilege is invisible
to new climates, rainforests of misbelief, a citrus...
and a small black beetle wanders down the glass, aimless
to break into a hundred thousand flaws
on a shifting panel of sadness
where the mirrorweed claims the murder bird as its kind
and I face the facets of my opposites
Laurent Kabila, surely an opposite, and
Timon of Athens, apprehensively detailing touring cars
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