Door torn way

To not mind your own good looks
is as close to angelic as you're going to get
unless you happen to notice what a hard time
they have negotiating your mirror, trying for your sake
not to disappear, but for whose sake is it really
that you persevere in this field of obstacles
to the dark nowhere in which we dip our toes?
For whose sake do we bother to define ourselves
when we could stand still as if the door had been torn away
and our nightmares invited to enter, the hard work of our desires,
the utter nakedness of our intuitions about each other,
our helplessness?