Silver Curve

The morning coffee, steam

curling. A quick stir.

And there, inside the spoon's bright gleam,

my face, a blurred

and strange, misshapen dream.

My eye, a stretched balloon,

a liquid, shifting thing.

The nose, a small cartoon.

What does that bring

to mind? A quiet, soft harpoon

of self-doubt, quickly passed.

It's just the metal's curve,

how light distorts. How fast

we bend. How we observe

the flawed, and hold it fast.

It is and isn't me,

that wide and staring eye.

A small, quick joke to see.

Then, with a silent sigh,

the image breaks, sets me free.