overgrown the mirror is full of weeds they lattice my double-face like a wall. i don't have enough poison to free my flipside. once we lived in a twin house & the duplicate sofa slumped into the fresh dirt. swam with raccoons & red wandering. the old men versions of ourselves used the oven to store newspapers. they walked the halls holding hands for fear of getting lost. your shadow self is feeling left out. you should be more open to collaboration with windows. i open mine & see a necklace of reflections. house after house. there was a model god used to make us. filled each with spit & dust. i'm one cough away from just being a cloud. even the clouds have binaries. the twin house died & the old men selves laid face up in the grass. moss grew over their bodies until they turned to stone. the stones dispersed over the length of my life & i find them all the time: a knuckle, a wrist, a chin. our real house flourish in the wake. we cut down the tree in the yard but its shadow remained painted in the grass. you can't deconstruct the twofold of every body. sometimes i take my girlhood for a walk. she is a goose & wants to migrate with the rest of them but i need her right where i can see her. we're all in the process of swallowing the other side. all universes are just looking for the right one. which version is going to be the pleasure one? the mirror is so dense there's no such thing as checking my face. i touch my forehead & see the leaves rustle. there has to be a knife that could fix this but then again isn't great to be the only one in a series? i take to trusting the blurry form seen in sidewalk ice. i could be invisible. i could be a whole house. i might even be the old stone man-- moss on my teeth. moss on my arms. check my hands for signs of dilapidation. not yet. just fogged flesh & a backyard ripe with budding pairs of wrists. take the doorknob from under my pillow & pocket it just in case.