who am i
the poet bemoans the awe
and this poet hearing the rushing of rubber
against the light early chirp
with fluffed pillows and warmed fingers wrapped around steam
this poet too asks
who
am
i
this life seems almost too short some days
and others as if nothing could end it
soon enough
that the futile hours filled seem so wasted
such a waste
and someone else surely could do a better job taking
up the space of this bodies rest
and then the rubber
and then the steam
and there appears the arms around and the
softened heart
that is only this one inexplicable agape
who
am
i
