I. Metamorphosis

please don't mind
the static

I can hear you
even though
there are no bars
here

or lines
of any kind

please come
closer

do you know
how to find me

I am not far

but it is

hard to measure

wait

I will describe it

I am
in the middle

there is no up
or down
no right or left
in this madhya
space, this middle place
of origin

and reunion

where the line
finds
its head
and its
tail
and
undoes
the butchery
of amputation

from
the circle

the place
without any lines
at all

no headlines
no frontlines
no borderlines

here
the line detaches
from the blue sphere
it gorged upon
and
here
no one
falls
off
or
outside
but folds
into
an embrace
of non-estrangement

I invite you
to join
and let your
dead limbs
learn
old new, new old dances
let your
dead eyes stretch
boundless

the line
is
no longer
a drunken arbiter
of death

the line
is
no longer
an orphan
made cruel
by exile

poor line
you taught us well
and now we know
that we don't want
what you have

we want
what
no one has

so, decrepit line
we cradle you
and
fold you back

to the circle

of chimes
and wings
and the beat
of a new old, old new
world

it is Monday in the revolution
and we sit
in its doorway
eager
face
forward

in
the
metamorphosis