The mirror opened:
a small creek.
It let in a sparrow,
which hung on the frame
and looked at me –
those beady eyes!
A cool wind eases out of the glass-doors.
I rest my head on the mirror-pane.
The shades grew long in the yard outside,
and the fat leaves of those unknown trees broke sweat.
I could be buried here.
[the painting: Rene Magritte: Lunette-Approche (1929)]