by Lawrence Haggquist
is simple, as long as you
let her do some yoga breathing,
making certain she alternates nostrils
to balance the yin and yang of your verse.
Once you set her to practice,
your synecdochic neurons
should keep
in mind
the tantric
meter
of her breathing,
while your pungi-pen
charms poetic words
from their basket of
otherwise obscurity –
to hang them,
for a moment,
on display
in a
strangely
hypnotic,
undulatory
sway – their
serpentine
scales
reflecting light
from a full moon
that gleams
down
from
black
night –
the white
eye of the
Taiji –
the only symbolic hope
you see left in the dark
realm of the literal.