It was not this , nor even that
Says the triangle of envelope
Surrounding pencil’s memory.

Triangle tapers as life’s death
As it is not this nor even that.
We arrive at “this” by triangle.

They are our gorgeous things
Outside triangle petering off.
Body is our triangle, not “this”.

Triangle is “not this ,not this”
But poet’s closing of triangle.
We are born two and die two.

(remembering Emily Dickinson’s envelope poem “It was not Death ,for I stood up..” that seems to adopt a Hindu way of arriving at truth by “Not this,Not this”-a process of elimination)

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