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

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