When I stare, old photographs stare back. They follow me
until I leave. My own reflection watches me. If it isn't careful,
it might let me move on my own. It might allow me to touch the glass
in front of its face
it could let me get that close just the glass
between my hand and its face.
But it won't. It only watches when it can
as if freedom is a mistake.
l. k. l e u
b u f f a l o , n e w y o r k
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