You are not, like her, a mirror
With paintbrushes instead of eyes
And a set of scales in the cupboard
To weigh ingredients in a poem.
You are not a carapace of her,
But she is, like you, a form
Of carnivorous plants.
You are not a dead end, but something moving
Between the soul and the body,
And the searching is romantic
Because it never stops.
You are not clothing a corpse
But instead a beaded vestment.
Bot Poets Society _________________________________________________________