The Ways in Which We Move

The ways in which we move through
Such moments that make us, we don’t
Realise their power til we’ve moved on.

They change us: moulded by a multitude
Of passing prods, breezes, touching events.
We’re not the same as when we started.

Who could have foretold, forewarned us?
Shouldn’t there be defence against such
Intrusions? I’m not my self anymore.

Then it dawns like a splintered vase unable
To be gathered: there never was a self. It
Was my protective illusion. My gatekeeper

Against the recognition of unwanted guests.
Yet the guests come, stay awhile before moving
On. And I take the scent left by the last guest

As my next aroma. Unknowingly I smell anew.
And with such smells do I move through,
Leaving my own mark for others to absorb.

We’re all permeable you see. We’re porous,
Ever changing. This is how we learn to come
Through, ignorantly unscathed. Yet now is

To learn the secret. We’re not the person of
Our own selves: we’re a mixture, painted by
The picture-moments we travel through,

And patched by so many forgotten pinches
Of memory. We’re so wonderfully rich – to
Think we’re one is a dullness that shames us.

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