before I ask what it is I am;
There is part of me I find only in gardens
the thing at the center, that participates
as though caught in some sort of watercolored wind,
looking down on itself,
satisfied through some distance
from its own physis, its conscience, its pretense.

There is another part that is always asking
that something happen between people
something it fumbles with
something it would not always breathe,
something it could not mouth
something which perhaps comes
from the watercolor air,
if that air is within a sanctum,
a sanctum where footsteps may be made
and the breath caught and the brain
remaining fully nourished,
expecting tokens
lying in precise positions
on the corner of an angular table
or the other end
of a paved-stone hallway

Places I haven’t visited, implying a third self
that wanders into the rain,
on what I call an “importunity”
a hazarding following a path
as a thing for itself
a spell over broken stones
the self lost in the language of self
or demoted into its own letter,
imagining it walks on
the future, frozen
as though there is little to make
of the present, when it does
not fully embody the countenance
as it means it;
something it was asking
for, yet which it may
not speak except
in following
a haphazard trail
until it forms
a language that
suffices in being
spoken through the footfalls
that will not shatter
the thing realized, something
already taking a form
in realization

(sorry for the earlier note citing incompleteness, I had to attach a power cable to keep the laptop on)