Cars and courier vans glide through the panorama
of my doubled reflection. My daughter pretends
I’m her private video projected on the night.
Sometimes we star together, lit by the supernovenas
of beeswax taper halos, mutable portrait
of Madonna with gap-toothed child grinning.
I am filled with snow and trees, I contain auras of street lights
Framed by sliding glass doors, I drape this winter night
like a shawl around my shoulders, shimmer in the wind
of all that’s common, cold and fine, rejoicing
in the traffic and the bone street, salt bleached.
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