Haibun 3 by Michael Leong

The reveling was unraveling: unmoored from the morning’s mellifluence, the suffix of your name was unfurling away. To intervene, I invoked the Vertical Angle Theorem, but my words just boomeranged back at me. It was a matter of having too many eyes and not enough hooks, of a busted tow-ball, of an asymmetrical Siamese connection. I thought I heard my name but the phrase was: oh, angelic elm. It was: helical gnome. It was: limn, ogle, ache. I thought that figure flickering in the maelstrom was you, but it wasn’t you or even someone or something that resembled you. But then it really was—which made me believe, once again, that the Velcro was permanent.   

your other self—
       tucked into the folds
of midnight’s marsupium