8

Not missing you, I don’t miss you.
Missing is a shawl that drapes and hangs
over us like chain mail.

So I see you as the missing
...in the spaces I don’t miss…

fostered remnants of air trapped between stitches…

I love everything about us all,
and dismiss what needn’t be or claims to be,
or that which lingers …

I don’t suppose we linger…
not like pilgrims waiting on
for the golden miracle
to dispel their aging doubts.

We are not disabled,

unless we forget ourselves.
Unless we miss ourselves.

7

Inexpressible.

So why do I write? Can it be contained… I wonder,
as journeys pile upon each footprint, traces of places
provided for our learning…

I am building a doppelganger of myself –
I will donate it to the world.

Take this other me and fill it with all the false personalities.
You’ll never suckle the milk of the true spirit-foetus … not yet,
anyway…

for the time being I’m working in my laboratory
like a modern day Fulcanelli:

I am building a doppelganger of myself –
I will donate it to the world …

Eventually!