Tuesday, October 22, 2019

Four Raindrops

“a tiny little area of bone at the base of our skull called the otic capsule. . . . immovable and therefore truly permanent, remaining locked in our bodies as irrefutable evidence of our biological identity from before our birth until after our death. . . . about the size of four raindrops”

I tell a double story,
The play of my wandering
Within the narrow confines
Of the life within a skull.

I am, of course, not the one
Who wanders, the wandering
Being done has always had
A playful mind of its own.

I am self and I am bone,
The never known part of me
I can’t perceive or forget,
Signature under the desk.

Black cows, black aspen shadows.
Hard to tell in high meadows 
What’s too solid, what is air,
And who’s the wanderer there.

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