Each the Other

and this is the world in the form of a map

mountains are knuckles and

nations are blotches of failed pigment

and this is my skin and that

is where rivers run

I really do forget the drawings, and the poems. I call this a blessing — to be surprised, upon finding them later, and to feel almost as if they were done by someone else, as, in a sense, they were. And how nice it is now to be reminded that this particular drawing, and this particular poem, came about on the same day, for it seems each is, or could be, the other, and not lose its individuality.

[ 1981 ]