“and the night is coming on,
which has no hope of dawn”
–Anna Akhmatova
I lost myself
out of myself
like a sleeve
slips over skin,
a new coat
to hide within.
One is more
than one’s
manifold
projections,
convex
reflections,
staid
contradictions.
I lost myself
in a storm,
my broken arms
flailing the wind
with a whirlygig’s
frantic clacking.
I lost myself
again, too often,
too easily—
donning disguises:
losing myself
out of myself
without myself—
broken, alone.
(March 30, 2018)
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