I have form
and form has me.
I want more than form
more than being had.
No, I don't even want that.
Every time I try to know
it escapes me and articulation.
I'm happy not knowing.
I don't trust myself when I move
in the agitation of fear.
I don't trust myself when I'm worried
something will be taken away from me.
What do I really have-
that I could become more or less?
Well, let's see..
I have a few suitcases of belongings
I have this borrowed body..
on what basis was it entrusted to me?
To what do I owe these beautiful bones?
I did not suddenly appear one day.
There is a history in these cells
from which my earliest origin can be traced.
looking at the fine lines
of the skin on my knuckles
the perfect orbiting rings on my fingertips
and the untold number of ages
it took for thought to develop
so that I may now contemplate all this-
makes my heart sing.
And when my heart sings
and when I weep
I feel like I need nothing at all
as if this feeling alone could sustain me
If only I wasn't so forgetful
or if only my tears were like rain
and it really did rain all the time.
But this borrowed heart
needs more than bread
more than these tears
to find its way home.
Post a Comment