To a coda click of radiator,
a cadence to dusk,
through a backroom doubled pane:
windows,
stacked like fractions
of diminishing return;
floods of warm white gold,
locked in painted shells,
blanket out all occupants
in liquid sheets of sun.
I wonder if a neighbour stands
reflecting,
as we bathe in embers passing time,
set between two frames.

*

Two frames:
connected in a dream
of Lennon mirror glasses owned,
as emerging whispers tease:
'if only you could see yourself'.

I turn to touch a glimpse,
but all I catch are minor worlds:
globes, in myriad collapse,
selves de-magnified,
lost in deep repose.