My poetry's here, in case you forgot.

This is a draft of something new:

A Pretty Girl and Her Mother,
the Day After

So everything's the same but nothing's
changed. You moved your house
Haven't you? Or perhaps just the
furniture's reversed. Maybe it's you.
You changed
the part in your hair,
the gap in your teeth the side
your buttons button on.
I believe it is you.
You look a little like you.
Or one or the other of us.
I'm afraid to touch your hand, there.
Right now.
It will be cold.
Like that awful mirror behind us.
On that side, again.