for Wallace Stevens
you are myself and tell me
who I am with your words telling themselves who you are asking
endlessly
the same question which springs again from the forked answer which is again a question answering
colors
spectral
premonitions
desires
pulsing twins
of obscure syllogisms
as I write this a transparent insect
like a tiny drop of golden light
crosses the page
it just barely exists yet casts a shadow
its feet and eyes are totally invisible
and yet it moves
on
turns
almost disappears
the shadow moving across the page remains