It’s no coincidence
this is a used
furniture warehouse.

I enter with you
and become a mirror.

Mirrors
are the perfect lovers,

that’s it, carry me up the stairs
by the edges, don’t drop me,

that would be back luck,
throw me on the bed

reflecting side up,
fall into me,

it will be your own
mouth you hit, firm and glassy,

your own eyes you find you
are up against closed closed

Margaret Atwood “Tricks with Mirrors"  Eating Fire: Selected Poetry  1965-1995. London: Virago (2010) p. 140-1 

First part of the brilliant poem by Atwood. Full text also here.