Telling off the great and fatuous unknown
after I catch it bulldozing,
I turn to my superior, a shadow whose face is a sentence
I might have been.
Awake for long enough to know
the bent of my breath, it puts forth various theories
of sky and punishment. Nothing is water enough.
So I take a friendly book down from the shelf
and scrub my obscurity clean of the hostile self
I had mistaken for my own.
Now it's an open space
for the least I could say, though often the past comes
to collect me before I stop there; it likes to eye
the blind side of a day on its way to living me.