Windows
As I look through the reflective window,
The glass multiplies my incantation.
It's as if some strange ghost of myself shows
Itself by transposition's migration
Further into a faint transparency,
Further into a smeared blotch of colors
That blend with the bucolic scenery.
I make a distortion of this nature.
I pantomime myself five times or more—
Four times that I can recognize my face.
What must I replicate my movements for?
Why must my shadow mutate throughout space?
I gaze at the outside world. There, I find
Another portrait in-between two minds.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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