Shaving Mirror

Speaking to the back of his head
while watching his face being shaved
in the mirror, it was as if I were
speaking to his other self over there
in the mirror world where the razor slid
across the foam on his face, shaving it close
but the back of his head was here,
before me, tilting as his face tilted
in the mirror. Words we spoke
slipped across a border, muffled
like a blade in lather, as if
there were no face here
behind (or before!) that head.

Then, at the thirteenth stroke,
he turned, clean-shaven, away
from the mirror, blocking my view
of the mirror world and was here,
with me, and nothing beyond,
his other self dispatched in a mess
of foam and a blade drawing it away
from his other face, half-shaved there
as his face here was not, a towel patting
away the last remnants of that view
as the clock struck twelve and his words
clear now in the world we know.

What do you think?