Mother soft joy balls at a midday wake:
Pleasing pleasing prisms does not do to you
.        what you do to me.
Neither do sandwiches make messes when
.        your mouth is closed.
You are neither left nor right;
.        how vague can we get?
You are neither food nor are you hunger;
.        is that better?
You are clearer than prisms could
.        or should ever be.
A refractory image of being, not being,
.        of eating, of not eating.
Of getting so close to the spot
.        only butterflies could not be.

Inside the box, not.
Without the box, within.
You are you are you are.
I am in you of you me are in side under of
.        to with me for us we not yes are.
Then the next thing is, is not, is of, your allegiance to being,
.        to wearing, to not trifling, but chortling instead.

Giving me bliss does not deposit your nugget
.        of self, at least not
without automatic departure, at least not
.        withdrawal from this onslaughts of idea.
Of flowing flowering rivers
.        of chunks of heart–
Not of sweet chakra juice, but of
.        poignant gusts of you and of me. Of we!


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