we are like a
mirror over a pool
gas lamp in a museum
satellite in the starlight
hardwood floor and a stool
made from the same oak
the inseam in a cloth
on a broken cloak
with a petal of heather
a word before a thought
the portrait in an empty room
a lost mausoleum
mindless wings of a moth
collected in the small of a broom
connected but not
together.
