The mirror in my bedroom's warped,
a giant crease streaking across
the right-hand side, distorting my
reflection in the glass. The light
jumps off of me, and on the glass
it dances, cartwheels, bends and twists
along the valleys, hills, and plains
that stretch across the mirror's face.

And once the light has had its fun
it calmly flutters back to me,
the rays crisscrossing in the air
like intertwining strands of yarn
knitted into a winter scarf,
but poorly done, so that it curls
along the edges, fraying some.

I see myself distorted there,
and step left to discover what
I think is a more truthful shape.
But this shape too is just a lie,
for all the world is like that scarf,
is like that warping in the glass,
distortions imperceptible
of height and width and depth and time.