This summer is floating in a chrysalis
Tight-folded wet dark insect wings
Inert, but waiting, a shape that is flight.
The world beyond the chrysalis is a pale blue void:
A once-mattered thing is this world outside
Reduced to a haze of singing waveforms
For now all is inside: wrapped tight as a gift
The distillate of generations and millennia
A story of survival though not yet born
Here infinity disguises itself.
This is the result of the writing exercise I mentioned in this post. For what it’s worth, the original phrase was
Call the mats tatami. Tatami rooms are