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