Of myself

I am given to long poems

Which ramble on about loneliness

Because in the end I have considered all

And I am alone

If you find me talking at length about

This glory or that wonder

Do not stop me

For I have lost myself at the end of it

And cannot cease until I find myself by wandering

About the magical paths that my fancies take

I do not love the odd marvel

Of a perfect silence

Or the slowly expanding flame

Of a woman’s spine

Because it is primally enthralling

But because it is a strangely symmetric thing

Like the sea anemone, or the divided cell

Providing sustenance for my hungered soul

In the end I complain too much

I wander along fascinated with the joy of life

I focus too much inwardly

To the point of being stymied when others ask me things

As though it is impossible that they should not know me as well

As I do

I am fathomable, and often measured,

Mystic, and too rarely clear

Perhaps tomorrow I will have changed entirely

Perhaps I can shed this skin as easily as if it were a coat or shoes

Perhaps I will not be a poetic, perhaps not so much enraptured

Perhaps free, perhaps you

Perhaps