cutting great neck

really, what is a rhetorical question
but an exercise in familiarity,
in sensation—the answers that swim
in your blood—what is it but a mirror
of human thoughts, you looking in
and me looking out? do you feel
what you see, even if it’s only threads of truths
strung into a reflection? what is a mirror
but a lie—a wall that seems to open
into another room,
another person looking into another?
do you fade into yourself
like the city into fog
when it yearns to hide from the world?
or do you always see yourself
when you gaze into mirrors—
even in complete darkness?

snow drapes roads and roofs,
sweeps the sidewalks, the swerving
side-alleys. when we wake up in the presidio,
the white grime seems
to slink down into the ocean.
would you wait to watch it fall nimbly
down skies, down knolls?
or would you strut down
with black leather heels that rim into sludge,
breaking the ice like a needle
into skin?

in the winter, before it snowed,
we woke up and asked ourselves
if waking up was a good decision.
to those looking into mirrors in bathrooms,
into oceans from decks of yachts and liners,
into eyes that run smooth with the truth:
do you dare look before you kick it?
the morning fog is clear enough
to echo your image in its thicket.
but if it’s not fog, then what is it?