The surgeon who opens me
cuts dogs, leaves, figs and small
silver coated barramundi
but only I show the evidence of scars
and the memory of fluttering green gowns
or the itch of dissolving stitches
beneath my skin.

Below the incision, the same dogs,
leaves, figs and small silver coated
barramundi contain their own creatures
within, like tiny mirrors reflecting mirrors,
including the faintest flashings
of you or me; tightly folded deep and unseen.

Between our bodies, there is only
an age of unfolding movement
and perception, the limit
of the world which casts my shadow or your shadow
under and over every other shadow:

for as Leibniz knew - nothing matters,
only points of view.