Self-Portrait in a Tea Urn

A sudden apparition, veiled in smears
from tired dishcloths, tracked with limescale tears
and tannin freckles, imperfections healed

by condensation, turned by curving steel
to pale ellipsis set with eyes that stare
brewing darkness in a frame of hair.

I don’t like mirrors; why should they be 

truth?
I choose the chance reflections that appear
free from glass, ephemeral but fair.