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.