I can't see your face
in the glass - just a
shadow of white where
you must be - no
features, no hair, surely
not really there

but your past floats
tangible in the air, bright ghosts
travel round you sitting
here smiling down at your
lack of nerve, your fear.
Can  you see

your face, your self - green
pear hanging amid the
boughs of your life, unseeded,
unripened, hard to the hand
resisting the lips - when you
fall will you be found, plucked,

raised up?
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