The skull is a myth, the gentle flesh,
eyes black pools in the face’s expanse.
There is a rumor. Do you know it?
Privacy of the body; its separateness.
So serious we take ourselves, our
serious limbs, our serious mouth
making clear delirious sounds, our
hair, the selfish hours of our, our, our.
Question: What if it is not divided?
The I is also the you, the monkey
is also la selva, the leaf, the old man
cactus with its thin white hair, what then
must we call ourselves? The ribbon
is not a lie. The pink cord that weaves
around both the body and the world
is pervasive and shatterproof,
the ribbon unravels beyond the frame
and its persistence, through clock time,
through illusion and emptiness, it is here
now, and it can hear you breathing.