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.