if the mirror

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in its gilded frame
                                                                                beheld the body’s greeneries                    something

                                                  a face of leisure
                                                  a leaning in                                    the neck’s question

nothing more
                                                                  than a slung shoulder
                                                  a slipped stem into                                a gilded vase
                                                                                                                          an unstrung bodice

                                                                                                                                                      would it be

                the lady or the thread
                                                  tucking itself into                       a stretching fog

                                                  throating out a call
                              or reply
                                                                                                                          it’s a lovely thing

to be the mirror
                to be the lady

                                                                                                             & with the neck in repose
                                                                                            what’s the throat to do