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Off the rooms in which
they hung
branched other rooms,
rooms in which
our ghost-selves paced
a moment behind us.
But it was not that
other boy
but the mirrors themselves
that fascinated me,
thin as the page upon which
I write this.
Practicing kissing,
it was they that blushed,
taken aback by my advances.
And when, wrestling
my brother,
one shattered,
it fell in lucid selves
that went on doing
what they’d always done
like a crowd turning
away from a hanging.
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