Again, it is evening. Moon singing the trees
when he asks whether there are two of any one
of us, his mind in and out of its tamper.
Instead of replying, I let him spin
his stillness and mirrors. His speech
has become an unfixed point. He explains the large
then smaller. I learn so much
as he orders eternity and repeats it.
My wrist commits to his figments.
The letters are teachers
and I write, horizontal, whatever comes next
from his mouth. Clear blue jays out the window.
I am amazed that here’s fortune again in increments.
I write against the white table.
Photo by Sourav chanda, used and adapted under CC.
