How am I a self
when I am
constantly disappearing?
A traveling venue
of water and
sinew—
I am a story
I made up
in my head . . .
looks good in hats,
won’t eat oysters,
fears infirmity.
Touch me. I am fluid.
In all my transparency
my body is
betraying me
just as
the plot
demanded.
I would deny this
distant progression
of time and cells
were not
such a talker.
Kiss me. I am corruptible.
So what
are we
made of?
Stories—
Just when you think
you could not take
one more
here comes another.
You keep right on
living—
piling up
your stories
like cordwood
and the lying-self
keeps pace
with daily duties;
meals to prepare,
pills to take.
keep on if you did not
deny your vanishing point?
Look at me. I won’t last long.