‘I’m sitting behind the glass,
at rest, my own portrait’.
No coin in a slot, no peepshow.
No flash of white
light, no sticky smudged surface,
or four practised faces
slammed down a chute
but a collison of lasers.
Or, put it this way,
it’s raining behind your window ;
there;s usual morning traffic,
you can always make a dash for it;
you can stay just
like that soaking up reflected light
from rain, stealing a chase on
whatever makes a rainbow,
becoming, to an onlooker, more solid,