A Fold in the Act

                standing at the frozen fountain’s
edge, she recalled sitting down
at the table of laments

for a meal of ice
and ideas—how the mouth
of the man across from her

was an unsteady line, the lamplight
a whorl of pale weeds;
how suddenly she was outside

and couldn’t re-enter the house:
a dollhouse. The two
figures inside—she saw

herself through frosted glass—
were static. The interior appeared
as a fallow field. A thing is always

doubled by also being
an example of itself, she thought.
Yet there are moments when objects—

his wristband lying
on the kitchen counter, the sharp
knives shining in the dresser drawer—

snap into being, are only
themselves, irrevocably,
unequivocally. In fact,

this happens regularly—
and it proves… and it proves…
she imagined a mirror pivoting back

and forth so that it reflected,
alternately, a figure,
and a reflection of the figure

                                in another mirror—