My face — imperfect forger, now I know the way you work:
Each day you replicate the cells that were yourself,
Tiny, detailed batches and almost every one matches.
But somehow error enters in — you won't go back to a master,
Copying instead your most recent counterfeits. Maybe you think
It's more challenging like that? It really ought to be science,
But you approach it as an art. I see interpretation
Traced around the corners of my mouth and eyes —
Where the double "t's" were once crossed individually
Now there's a ligature. In the bathroom, with the dimmer
Set to "interrogation," I discover your stab at a watermark.
Nice touch. You want it to look good, but not too good —
Allow for wear and tear, the effects of circulation.
The only way to tell it's a fake is by holding it up to a mirror.