I can’t find her any more.
Except as a rising relativity, a blurred smeary mirror that can’t be wiped clean.
It scares the one who isn’t, that she can’t be found.
Life breathes into the fear and where is the fear now?
She still rises, but she’s created of thoughts & feelings, how odd!
Those thoughts & feelings, how do we mistake them for a self
when reality rises so much more expansively?
Why did we look at body and think it ours?
Why did we view thoughts and claim them, lasso them, commandeer them?
Why did we feel so acutely and build a sense of self around the risings,
imagining this pain, this happiness, this hurting, this delight meant
a human existed behind them, a solid compilation of personality and decision?
As you look around your coffee shop or bedroom,
how could you not be as equally the laughing woman rising cup to open lips
or the dresser drawers skewed halfway open?
When did we mistake ourselves for a single viewpoint, a microscope slide?
How much energy does it take to run the facade, the carnival mask, the
heroine, the hero, the living and dying one?
We’re running out of gas, she’s run out of gas,
she can’t run any more
from what’s bigger than the next sentence,
what sings from the ceiling,
what giggles near the window,
what never started and
–ready or not here it comes–