I am trying to thread the eye of the needle
that sews humblebrag stitches
onto an embroidered pillow slip
that reads, on one side, look at me,
and on the other, oh it’s nothing really,
and when you wake up, you can turn it over
so you still feel the cool fabric
on your cheek, and think of me.
We buried them in shallow graves,
eyes up, under leaves and compost.
Now come the rains, filtering
to their faces, reverse tears, you say.
If only we could drink in the sky
and make our own starchy joy.
bike wheels are spinning
spoke prayers into the sky
whipping up praise clouds
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
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,
as impermanent as the wind, diffuse,
and I can see through your sky
to the endless multitude of stars.