A white room and a party going on 
and I was standing with some friends 
under a large gilt-framed mirror 
that tilted slightly forward 
over the fireplace. 
We were drinking whiskey 
and some of us, feeling no pain, 
were trying to decide 
what precise shade of yellow 
the setting sun turned our drinks. 
I closed my eyes briefly, 
then looked up into the mirror: 
a woman in a green dress leaned 
against the far wall. 
She seemed distracted, 
the fingers of one hand 
fidgeted with her necklace, 
and she was staring into the mirror, 
not at me, but past me, into a space 
that might be filled by someone 
yet to arrive, who at that moment 
could be starting the journey 
which would lead eventually to her. 
Then, suddenly, my friends 
said it was time to move on. 
This was years ago, 
and though I have forgotten 
where we went and who we all were, 
I still recall that moment of looking up 
and seeing the woman stare past me 
into a place I could only imagine, 
and each time it is with a pang, 
as if just then I were stepping 
from the depths of the mirror 
into that white room, breathless and eager, 
only to discover too late 
that she is not there.