FULL MOON ON TOP OF A CHAMPAGNE PALM'S TIP

everything is just a
reflection of ourselves
in the mirror

when the past comes
strutting
in the room where
we rest
where our feet are
still rooted to the
navel of the bed

we delight seeing
its way of dancing
before us

we do not feel like
rising
and going out to meet
another

or if we do so
we always meet something
new with the face of the
past still dominating the
halls of our present

how can we grow like
a vine on the canopy of
trees
or an orchid in the
company of barks?

when our arms are as
tightly bound as the
pickles inside the jar

when our minds are
laminated on the
the letters unopened
on addresses fading
on the faces of outdated
envelops inside those
dusty cabinets of old.