Our Multiverse

The world inside the mirror
doesn’t see me, know I’m here
peering in at its place in life –
it’s dead, receding even from me.
Nothing remains of that moment;
time is mashed together, frozen
so we can glance back at the décor
we chose, lived with, talked to
when everything slipped.
Pockets, jars and baskets hold
picnics, nightmares... special days
and particular food – one of mine
serves fresh dates with Marscapone cheese,
another, children running through
the house, back and front doors open
me deep in a book on a sofa.
Actions have front covers
like DVDs stacked on shelves.
We are libraries and everything
depends on the librarian…
what lives again and again
what’s lost because there’s no assistant
or volunteer with a key or password
or hammer to break into our self.