qarrtsiluni

Then again, you are made of triangles
Your eyes, lips, cheeks all joined in harmony
Your stance, a point of geometry
Isoscelism is your creed and scale

My body’s made of circles all a tangle
Circular logic travels well on me
Both body and thought housing holes to scry
Both curving softly into folds, no angle

Inside a triangle the circle stays put
While the triangle’s encompassed dutiful
Within the circle’s circumference; He spoke

of the hibiscus sitting in a circle
in a triangular relief, with soot
Building on the door’s lintel in New York

by Joanne Hudson

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