When the mirror paints itself, 
how quietly it sits. 
Its posing is perfect. 

But when it paints us, 
no matter how hard we try, 
we fail to be still. 

What if we propped a corpse up 
for model: even it 
would fidget 
after a while; 
the flesh would droop then drop,
spoiling the sitting 
by spoiling. 

No: only the mirror itself 
can pose properly 
for its incisive portraits, 
which then mock our mortal 

Displayed everywhere, 
they are the walls we live in, 
they make a museum of us. 
Our provenance (if any) 
comes from them. 

And no expert needs 
to authenticate 
those masterworks. 

We are the forgeries. 
We are the fakes.