No One Knows the Reason for No One’s Existence

The rock wren, porch familiar,
Had fluffed up against the cold
And was moving so slowly,

It was almost another,
Puffier species. It trilled
A few repetitive notes,

However, near the window,
For identification.
Inside of its awareness,

You would guess there was no self
Duplicity. It wasn’t
Occupied by a fungus

Of songs and self-reference
Floated in from outside lives
Like you. Your homunculus

Is real, is not a fiction,
Except in myths it controls
Your actions, is wholly you,

Is a monad that outlasts
The body as solid soul.
It’s a little onlooker

Constructed of other minds,
Every human’s Frankenstein
Recreation, the Golem,

The no one inside the brain
That sat watching the rock wren,
Thinking how solid it seemed,

For all its fragility
And faintly feathery fluff,
A life with no one like it.