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.