Desperate Meetings of Hermaphrodites

In the hotel on the other side of the mirror
the chaise longue dictates the poem of the film
can only be a snapshot, seeing as the film
is a book – and as it snaps shut it opens
again on a random page at any moment
of a keyhole or doorframe through which
you look for an unabridged view of whoever
has left their black brogue and white stiletto
in the corridor exchanged for a halo of the five
points of a star becoming the snap of a finger until
you’re falling back through the smashed mirror
into the room – or so it looked – seeing as the mirror
is a poem, which, in any case, is made of water –
finding the dripping statue, from whose mouth
all this had come, is dressing up as you.