Poetry is less about writing
and more about looking
at lint until it opens
its foggy mouth and says
I am a grey wig
made for a beetle
but you don’t stop there,
if you wait a little longer
it will be a nest
a hairnet
a lima bean
made of snow
until eventually
you merge with the lint
just like the yogis promised
and there you are,
all of it,
in all possible places
at once.