Every mirror in British Heart 
has lived reflection after reflection- 
each owner flat-packed against the glass
like wet leaves pressed on rainy windows.

Those rooms they showed. How many
kisses and haircuts, a thousand pieces
of spinach, ten thousand teeth- a curious
girl smashes lipstick on her gob

in every silver puddle. Portals- first wed
to drop down dead. Who have you 
belonged to? Bob and Jean and Evelyn, 
every line observed, each smudge rubbed

with a page from the WF Guardian, 
grimy in hate and stabbings. Time for 
a new study, cheap as chips. Delivery
knocked down if you give them a smile.