Life has a narcissistic quality,
seeking itself, drawn in
the places between us only
to that which, in us, is
already itself.
                  It admits
no wants, and thus need not
search for perfectibility.

It turns its face to
the complacent surface of
its own sources, seeing
nothing not made in
its own image.
                No moving shadow
can disturb the serene halo
of life.       No lack
can extort any recognition
of possible alternatives.
                             No.
The quality of life is drawn
between us, only to that
which, in us, is already
itself.           It sees
no other thing, which,
seeking also life,
surrounds it; unreflexive,
restless, which, beneath surfaces,
returns the colours, creating,
without comment,
a mirror.