To dream of union is to dream the world in words,
the multifarious world conferring with two words.
Pick up a fragment of the world, let’s say, a stone,
and feel the heart—hard and soft—in the palm of words.
Lean on a week as you would on a walking stick
and learn the long and short of time-travel in words.
When a backdoor is pried open and shows a cave,
do you go in or stay out of the house of words?
You know the ups and downs of falling deep in love.
You know the stairs, that train station, are made of words.
The knife is for the wound. The road is for the shoes.
Honey and vinegar don’t lose the taste of words.
Thank god Paul is not Jee and neither is Jee Paul
but between Paul and Jee a world, a dream, all words.