The painter with a T-shaped face saw through twisty eyes
A reflected smile familiar but not his own,
The curves of his face in paint,
The charcoal scratches of lines of perspective on soft paper.
He turned his head and he saw the mirror anticipate his moves.
Raised his hands. Did the mirror move first?
He saw his reflection blink, and then he blinked.
He saw his unsettled expression as the feeling washed over him.
And then he was somewhere else.
A different perspective, though the lines were unchanged.
Was he another day? Another year? Could be.
The parts the same, the pattern different,
Words scrolling by on a marquee.