poem

idiot I am

How much of my life is me?
You see, I can’t even ask the question without begging it,
Without using myself to point at myself.
There is no outside place.
I am entirely in media res.

And so now that I have concluded that the poem is
stuck in the first stanza, let me move on,
For there is no standing still.
Should I worry and fret at such a mess?
Is there comfort in taking the being for its dress?

Comfort? Why sure. I can get on with things
And plan and dream the dreams that life has put in me,
Anything else would surely be an idiot’s symphony,
A montage of silences.
Alas, idiot I am.

gj dominato, january 2012

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