Mirror

Richie Hofmann

You'd expect a certain view from such a mirror --

 clearer 

 than one that hangs in the entry and decays. 

 I gaze 

 past my reflection toward other things: 

 bat wings, 

 burnt gold upon blue, which decorate the wall 

 and all 

 those objects collected from travels, now seen 

 between 

 its great, gold frame, diminished with age: 

 a stage 

 where, still, the supernatural corps de ballet 

 displays 

 its masquerade in the reflected light. 

 At night, 

 I thought I'd see the faces of the dead. 

 Instead, 

 the faces of the ghosted silver sea 

 saw me.