Faces

Faces
By Big Frank Dickinson

I used to think the face in the mirror
was a duplicate of the one it mimed.
I know it better than my own;
we think we are each other.

Others display theirs to me directly;
frames sliding seamlessly together
like a film; yet we are confused
by the jarring difference of each still.

It is the stills that are taken to bed;
Are put on shelves, and tucked away
In wallets and cardboard boxes -
Trophies, and flat references

to the millions of flashing faces;
beaming at us like exploding stars
seen from only one small peep hole
Across unimaginable space.