We replicated your experiments
in some elementary school classroom,
made delicate patterns
from circled     & inverted forms.

Now you come to me
a gifted black     & white postcard,
your staircases looping themselves
with     infinite     regularity.

How do_
                    you_
exist?                     draw an object
                    _that
_doesn’t

Pencil me     a space cubby, please,
a time hole where a woman could fit.
I tuck     nothing-fluff in after me,
seal edges & delete evidence of my escape,
roll until     ink jet black     covers all.

You can tessellate my leavings,
should you     find any that matter.

Otherwise,
let     me     be     junk
that flies to outer limits
where a man with (too many) arms
hugs himself, disappears.