Mirror Games

The sky in faded indigo denim today, creased and
worn, a mellow sun warming the seams that fuse

his halves together. He flicks a taut thigh, as if the
duck that rose to brush against him has left a

feather, a crumb of lake, a stain of moss. The water
holds his face with damp fingers. For one moment,

the sky becomes the mirror of the lake. The duck
splashes down, undoing them. The game never

changes. The water collects his scattered parts.
Rebuilds him. With that damned duck under his arm.