Awareness arranges its robes,
Having just come in off the street,
Covered in nets of dust to sit
For its portrait. Now where’s it gone?
Ah, it’s staring out the window.
Come back here, awareness, come back.
You must sit still to see yourself.
No one else can really see you,
And this restlessness doesn’t help.
What are you doing? Self-assured,
Today? Vulnerable? Wincing?
Concealing a skeptical grin?
Is that a minutely quirked brow?
We can’t even see what you mean,
And we’re nothing but what you mean.