3am by the L.E.D.
of the bedside clock-radio-alarm.

The en-suite regards itself again.
Mirror is the international finish.

A gecko watches me pee.
He sticks to the world.

His hands are small corn-plasters,
intimate with everything.

I try the mirror, whorl to whorl,
8ml between my index and my back-off self:
two thieves in the constant glass.

The gecko licks his eyes.
His pallid flesh transposed,
transposed, transposed.