From a Chinese Vase

Roaming the lonely garden, he and I Pursue each other to the fountain's brim, And there grow quiet — woman and butterfly — The frail clouds beckon me, the flowers tempt him.

My thoughts are rose-like, beautiful and bright, Folded precise as petals are, and wings Uplift my dreaming suddenly in flight, And fill my soul with jagged colorings.

The waters tangle like a woman's hair Above the dim reflection of a face — He thinks those are his own lips laughing there, His own breasts curving under silk and lace.

How shall we know our real selves, he and I, Which is the woman, which the butterfly?