Untitled

Stepping out of the stall
after a long, luxurious
hot shower, I come face
to face with a steamed up
mirror, and instinctively
reach up to scrawl your name
across the foggy pane:

A       n       n       a


I cannot see myself in
the mirror except through
each of the strokes of the
letters of your name – catching
a glimpse of my lips
curved in a smile on the
arc of an a, and the
gaze of my eyes through
the stipes of the ns.

Your name is a distinct hierogram
on the misty glass,
on which my likeness is juxtaposed,
clearer to me
than
my self
is –


is this as close as
we two can get?