Back to the Market (moments of grace, opus 17b)

The mirror doesn't lie, but it does take certain liberties
Sometimes, there is suspicion when the shadows and angles don't align
With the interior picture
Of who I think I am

Other times, there is suspicion when the shadows and angles *do* align
With the interior picture
Of who I know I am

Today, as I approached the melted sand carefully mounted at eye level
My pupils became moons; then butterflies
This small center of the house became a centerless circle, and I watched

The butterfiles rode the incense to the ceiling, and cascaded like batik down the walls and around my feet
Up the tub and toilet and over the sink

My muse had been toying with me all day;
The joy and creativity felt like it was coming out of my pores on the way home:
I had wished for a bucket, but knew that there *was* no bucket to hold the ineffable

No writing, so it simply waited for a point of vulnerability and pounced
Painting the reality that was at no-space from that which watched the world
With equal detachment.

I wapped myself in the batik like a robe
And became 7 stars
which, when recognized from awareness
were really one

one star, which overwhelmed with the underwhelming,
drained the tub
cleaned the sink

And headed back to the market.