the clone

Beatrice V. 9th- Los Angeles
Perfect symmetry stares back at me, the eyes of a glassy clone
She lies on my windowsill, trembling from the train
That passes by my dormroom every night, the fraud of city life
Is the thunder I must deal with every day.

I watch the clone as she moves and goes forth
Reaching a hand through the glass and hovering before me
I seek to grip her hand but pass through it; she looks real but
Is nothing more than smoke and mirrors.

Or maybe I am the clone and she is the girl; her duty 
To entrust me with an archaic message of sagacity
An ode from the gods that watch me watch her
Sitting alone in the greatest city in the world.

I thought I knew the translucent girl- knew 
Her curls and the shape of her neck and the twist 
Of her smile but as she lifted the corners of her mouth
All i saw were fangs.