Three days after swearing off sex, I message an old tinder date.
We talk about coming home to ourselves, recovery, and tarot. 
She asks me, in what ways  do you want to be more grounded? 

& I want to tell her about Yayoi Kusama’s Narcissus Garden. How
fifteen hundred steel spheres lay on the ground, & reflect via convex
—how the viewer experiences a multitude of warped reflections
within reflections, copies of copies. & I want to tell her 

it’s not just about the warped image anymore.
It’s what else the curve scoops up from around you,
how it translates and abstracts the environment too. 

And I want to tell her all the stories that
I’ve told myself—that I’m not sure how
to find my way out of the garden. And 

she sends me flowers through the phone,
a handful of musky daffodils in full bloom—
roots exposed and dirtying up the receiver. 

Bits of earth crumble into my palm.