Now that I’ve felt the wind,
heard bells clink, seen glasses
raised to toast—huzzah, a new year—
I stand beneath temple steeples,
shoving a sheet of paper
whirling, whirling into a machine
never to be seen again.
***
The steeples greet an old me,
the oldest me: the one I was
before sperm met egg.
***
Like the God who knew
every hair on my head,
this me is undoubtedly me—
the most me I can be,
not in an army way,
not an end product,
not made for consumer use.
No market study needed.
No audience.
***
It’s like being a blade of grass
returning.
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