As the hand, expert with gloss and gleam, extends
a mirror forward, painterly lights amass
in that curved glass. Whimsy-blushed clouds upend
the apricot river where brown leaves pass.

Unlike clouds, my face is never mirrored.
I duck and yield beneath the stabbing brush
until my features have been charactered
to dark skin, dark eyes—particulars crushed

to portrait. I swat back the paint-hoared tip.
Is this a need to know or seal or bare?
A shadowless pink hydrangea stains my lip.
Like clouds, I take my colour from the air.

What mirrors me? Now modern times become antique
as lace, as my old face becomes that leaf I seek.
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