Most of what we are, we were
For the long stretch we weren’t us.
The cat yawns. The birds make tools.
The apes groom. The wolves form packs.
Beasts of all kinds lust and want
And long for good food and calm.
Most of what we are, we were
For the long years we lacked ghosts.
Now, there’s a strange kind of mind
In us, a voice more than song,
And we find that we’re in it
As well, and with no way out.
We do the sums. Draw the shapes.
Shape the poems. We’re still not us.
Tuesday, July 28, 2020
In Terms of Us
