The furies are at home in the mirror,
It is their address,
Even the clearest water if deep enough can drown.
Never think to surprise them.
Face approaching ever so friendly is the white flag they ignore.
There is no truce with the furies.
A mirror's temperature is always at zero
It is ice in the veins
It's camera is on x-ray,
It is a chalice held out to you in silent communion,
Where gaspingly you partake of  a shifting identity,
Never your own.