Leela’s poems are bits of her body – pieces
of her throat.
Since her body and the moon are one,
then her poems, although weavings of the flesh,
are no less weavings of the moon.
They don’t need to be read.
They need to sparkle her truth – some wisdom,
despite the limitations of form,
of the moonlight from which they are made.
Note: this poem is inspired by Planet on The Table (1953) by Wallace Stevens
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