Your Card

And I forgot to mention

the best part — the arrangement

of the four staples — each spinning

clockwise from its corner

suggesting motion, a cycle,

continuity, la roue de la fortune,

like a Tibetan swastika.

I imagine your right hand

holding the stapler, judging you

to be right-handed by the shape

and flow of the haiku letters,

and your left hand holding the card,

the miracle of fingers and thumb

made for pinching,

how they shape a world.



I am not

a parody of myself.

I am a fluid mixture

filling the container “Myself;”

taking its shape.

This is all a matter

of speculation.

This is all that matters.

All matter. Just.



You lie atop me

heavy and comforting

as the mountain,

your corporeal solidity

a landscape of old hills,

and then you are lightness,

transcendent, evaporative,

as impermanent as the wind, diffuse,

and I can see through your sky

to the endless multitude of stars.