i sit at my cubicle, surrounded by books, bags, and a water bottle.
i spy on the other cubicle across me, a water bottle
just like mine,
brushed steel,
the black underside of the cap sitting like a ring on the top.
And in the haze of the novel on my desk and the glass separating the
cubicles
I realize that the other bottle is not another bottle
but my bottle itself.
In a dream-like moment that passes, there are no two bottles
but just one
talking to itself through the glass, across the glass.
It reminds me of that time when I stood facing the tall mirror
and I saw not me but another me which was still just me
but a little outside me
like how letters rise up on a wet page
lift and spread beyond their borders and inktraps.
Another me which spilled over the inktraps of my body
a feature, not a bug
a feature in god’s image
which I cannot question
for I exist in the narrow equation
where one compound turns to another
crossing the Nile on tightrope
never failing, never falling.