“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)