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The morning mirror forgets your face
and rooms relax their rigorous hold
on things you've kept; the cold
floorboards are space
where dust accumulates.

Everything settles. Still rooms
close inward; windows no longer
accept light. Shadows from corners
fill the floor; evening blooms
silent as stone.

You're free now. The empty mirror
makes no demands; the walls'
empty rectangles vaguely recall
a still-life there,
reflected, then disappeared.

      — Sharon Kourous