Mirrorground Fair Narcissus

In the funhouse mirror, stuck
in those infinite births,
I see the distortions of me.

Fairground grass eats my ankles,
so do
the ice follies and other narcissus.

I touch the glass; it gurgles, streams
a river of whisky;
under his distilled breath the ticket man
says that I can cross it
but for that charges will be extra.

This year too, I may not dare.