It was not this , nor even that
Says the triangle of envelope
Surrounding pencil’s memory.
Triangle tapers life to a death
As it is not this nor even that.
We arrive at “this” by triangle.
But there are gorgeous things
Outside triangle petering off.
Body is our triangle,not ‘this”.
But a poet’s closing triangle.
(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)