A Celtic pattern rests on her chest.
Long swatches of blue rim
her eyes. The spectacles
say, sexy yet astute. Her words
sound like rings in her tongue.
She's not solid though, only quantities,
pieces of something dancing.

A sun bolt, orange, late, paints
my breast garnet on gold and
slow-cooks my skin. It's not
a field, not ether, more a rain
sometimes bouncing, up
in peaks.

We sit facing at the table now,
her and I. What is unreal
this me, that her?
"Knowing it thus, we should
not breathe."

© 2004, Amy Hart.

*[Hinduism]A Sanskrit word meaning illusion. The quote is from "Om: The Sound of Hinduism," written and narrated by Alan Watts.