The simple purity of a palindrome

The knot of a tree, exposing

To the "I am not" me

The dissolution of a concave mirror,


A pure point of my pencil

that spreads the parchment like glass

And a checkered wall

Whose only consolation is that it is not irregular


The "I am" and the "I is" are small

adversial memories

Dark stones and Leibnizian gardens

deep-sea coral rings and cumulus


These dramas and dramatizations,

Thread-bare like a heart

They remind me

That I am not him, he is not me,

We are one, unbounded

In the simple purity of a palindrome