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There will be a scientific reason
why I see my face upon the glass,
something to do with the light levels
on the inside and the outside,
something to do with the way that I feel
and the way that I see
through eyes stained with life.

Outside seeps through my face
through all the things I ever knew,
it’s the smear across the fragile glass
distorts the actual imagery.
For you or I the picture is the same
but what we see is skewed,
refracted differently.

Sometimes when we are close
I see the world through you,
a different sun-slant beyond the pane
a different kiss of light upon the sea,
warm as your hand the wind
with feathered clouds
sings soft and free.

At night the image, less opaque, is always me.
Only the brightest hanging windows
burn through the silver sheen,
lattice my face:
but when the light’s switched off
the veil is gone
and in cold clarity
the night glows on.

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