There is no whole self. It suffices to walk any distance along the inexo­rable rigidity that the mirrors of the past open to us in order to feel like out­siders, naively flustered by our own bygone days. There is no community of intention in them, nor are they propelled by the same breeze.

My self, like a high bird’s self,
Is walking along the seashore

And a self’s blurb is flying  sky
And a body is walking by  sea

And world is shaping round it.
Self calls it down by a flapping

Boy fingers for whites in them.
Whites drop bird-like in them.

They are of a self of yesterday.
Today’s whites are other thing.

A world is shaping around me.
My whites fly away by fingers

As my fingers snap at a  blurb
And we break the magic spell.