RITUAL

We wake, and everything in the room is Renoir, Degas, Matisse
the softness of lines spilling over into lines, corners rounded.

morning light diffuse, filtered through thick, brown curtains.
And we both reach for our little round glasses.

It gets so I cannot tell the difference between my hairy leg
and yours, between my arm, your arm, our hair the same color,
though I have more,

our heights that match and, we can even wear each others shoes.
Some days, we choose the wrong glasses, and at least our eyes

are not the same: me near-sighted, you far. On those mornings,
impressionism does not fade. The line of the bureau turns strange,

the door frame tips, and we mutely move our hands between,
in habit trade, passing you your own visions, me mine.

By William Reichard


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