Under the Sycamore Trees

We are two, you and I,
a mask and a cracked saint.
Or are we many? Or
are we one? A laugh,
a cloud out of a grave
that Zarathustra saw,
a thousand masks of children,
angels, owls, fools, butterflies,
a burning bush, a saxophone —
no, you are just a man
from another room.
Close the drapes, do not
step on the kitchen tiles;
you'll slip, they'll hear.
I'm scared of you, but
he's dancing double time
doppelganger steps across
the room, and where's
the crime in being frightened
of yourself? And I'll see you,
I'll see you in the branches
that blow in the breeze.
I'll see you in the trees.

Under the sycamore trees.