I translate myself

so I may breathe

without choking on air.

I wish my inner voice

would stop scripting

about me like a spider

softly weaving its own

sarcophagus. I think

too much; which is to say,

I don’t think enough.

The sun rises and then

it sets. The light trembles

on the sea; the wind is

just the wind where

mountains are mountains.

I am here. I see what I am:

I am not a reflection;

I am only reflection.

(March 6, 2024)