Who is it that sits
on the cushion
on the floor, here
in the twilight,
during the final
hours of spring?

Living on
the roof of
hell we tend
the flowers
that perfume
our sacred
interim home.

After carefully
observing us,

the monkey
declares, You

are certainly
not a part

of nature,
what are you?

Fish in
a tub
swimming
in circles.

I am standing with
five rolled-up pages
of poetry in my

hand, ready to lunge
forward and smash it
into oblivion, when

she says, Don’t ****
that fly. Can’t you
see it’s praying?

The green
grass is
wet from

rain. Her
elegant
footsteps

have left
their delicate
impressions.

He is a
yardstick,
a measure
of something.

He is a
body, something
worn like a
suit of clothes.

He is a
string of words,
a sentence
to be parsed.

He is an
individual,
a myth
that is told.

He is a vast
space,
a screen life
is projected on.