Almost two centuries ago
Duke Tolstoy had written this,
smiling cunningly in the snowy
immensity of Russia:
Spit in the eyes of these who claim
they can embrace the boundlessness.
This morning
I spit into the mirror
and try to clean
the toothpaste dripping
from the hibernating
vertical puddle of mercury,
a graveyard of many eyes –
it never reflects anything,
only steals.
I trust no Alice
wearing every face –
the wonderland
is on my side.

The master of my own illumination,
I flip the light switch off
and walk away
leaving the darkness contained
behind the closed door
in the bathroom.