you go to the floorboard and the fire,
the door where the dead feet walk in
a mother who looked on at a fireplace
and dad who bowed on a violin string
and see yourself missing in your pants
self that was unseeing of its little self
in tiny pants that held your small legs.
when you ran up and down like moth
in the room, with its new born wings
fluttering like child’s eyes in disbelief.
you have now grown into a big pants
and eyes no longer flutter in the day
but only in the darkness behind sleep
where dreams are staged every night.
(After reading Thomas Hardy’s poem The Self Unseeing)