It was not this , nor even that
Says the triangle of envelope
Surrounding pencil’s memory.
Triangle tapers to a life’s death
They are our gorgeous things
From the triangle petering off.
Body is our triangle, not ‘this”
But the 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)