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.

Inside Out

I am a parody of myself.

You are a figment of your own imagination.

We witness multiple realities, but mostly from inside out.

You stand in cold rain, arms upstretched, fingers outspread, leaf and stem, trunk and root, simulacrum of a tree.

Between sea and sky there is earth, you and I, wood and fire.