who are these people with their eyes closed
comforted in the exhaustion of every day
found in the yawning mouths of the subway
who are these couples with bags off
to other countries, who have packed
essentials for moments that maybe i
would include myself and yet who
carry on without me
who are these babies who watch
people like i in an unspoken language
which they will word through some time later
though they will say as little as i do now
who am i to them
to myself reflected in them
to myself seeing myself
in the tiniest infinity of
i eyeing i eyeing i
who are the ones who do not ask
who
who are the ones who do
do they meet my greedy gaze
do they see me writing this
do they wonder if they are contained
in the scheme of this strange chance encounter
in lifetimes that come just as happenstance
as a bee-sting or the dripping honey before
who are those who had a sex change
who are those who had an abortion
who were almost aborted
who wants to weigh their tired sleepless skull
onto another bruising brain that shares the same heaviness
that beats to his heart
that cries like my heart that loves
like my heart that is broken and
breaking and beautiful like my heart
and who could hold my heart even if i may
not be able to do the same to theirs
who smells
who farts too often
who has been known to enjoy pimple popping
for a reason they cannot explain
who watch the homeless with hope mixed
with fear, with confusion of whether
the change they want is more
for themselves than the man prostrated
in useless prayer to too many soulless gods
searching for a temple to transform into
a simple home with a shower and a bed
who are the ones who consider themselves twos
who can understand this but also that
who do not worry
about the complications of comprehension
but will rest past their
station in accidental serenity against a city
that pours away in shimmering superb
light
one that maybe is found in maybe
and perhaps in who we all wish to be
but who we never are
in our uncertain starting
and certain stopping
again
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