Convexed, I stand -- alone and laughable.

I laugh.

The blimp in the distorting mirror

laughs. (This time I hope

reflection lies!)

But what's that? A noiseless scarlet horror

is looming just behind me in the glass

heaving, bulbous, unbelievable.

The mirage hangs.... And yet I fear no act

of terror, for illogically I sense

out of this hideousness a miracle

a ghost of grace to spring from the grotesque.

What is this life?

Quickly I turn around. Distortion flies.

It's you, sweet wife,

wearing your scarlet dress!

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