THE SELF’S ART OF ILLUSION

ONE

The sun shines, gleaming on metal and rock.

Just waiting. Waiting is meaning. It passeth like this,

wise people are writing, leaving behind clues:

the world must have a way out, and you a good moment to leave. You come from the coast bringing sea-smell and light.

You bring death, bring rebirth and despair.

I make a copy of you, turn you inside out,

find the password, await your return.

TWO

The mason wasp is busy in its nest,

needles sticking from its inky legs.

For each betrayal a dose of poison

slides down its stinger into the depths of rock. I am hatching mutiny, a coup,

means by which to struggle for escape,

to make an enemy of you and then surrender,

your slave girl once again. The wasp is in its nest

and does not know that I conspire—just like you, sleeping, know nothing of my plan:

precise, each step considered, an insurrection

in your camp, where everything is flowing with honey. Who loves your blackened sweetness more than I.