In these times
each being,
without wanting,
is like
Klein's bottle: a
trick of drawing
whose outside is
its inside
and its inside out,
a bottle
which contains
itself:
To reach "out"
is to be deflected – as
by a field –
as in the universe
itself, all
Light returning to
its source
Sole selves, like
like poles
repel –
thought too
returns to where
it springs:
This "I",
dropped in a pool,
will start no swell – no
ripple spreads
to mar
the mirrored calm
of things
I rage,
I feel my love
trapped
in a world
of stillness
like a wasting illness.