It is an act of faith to assert that our thoughts have any relation to reality at all.
The sun at my back, I loom large
on the wall, but I’m small,
so small I pull into corners and hide
for fear of getting lost in my house.
Hiding persuades I am singular,
but I am more crowded than that.
There are so many of me
I meet myself coming and going.
We play games, my selves and I.
Call out, sidestep, play hide-and-seek,
reappear, then withdraw, as is proper
for will-o-the-wisps caught in the will
of winds, gusts and zephyrs.
I choose from among them,
transients playing peek-a-boo,
join one for a game and skidoo.
My embodiment, on loan to me,
an odd temporary affair,
harbors eternity at heart
despite the fleet of being here.
My I, anchored elsewhere,
tags along every day
centered in evolution’s aura
coaxing substance into poems.
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