by Sam Rasnake

           Now I become myself. — May Sarton


For some the thread runs

straight through — there to

here without ever saying

its name, without knowing

the bodies die, or the bridge

washes out, the path dissolves

to forest floor, then pasture

becomes skyline to street

to suburb to fence to door



but for others the thread was

never so with turns & turns &

turns again until all faces blur

to one — & then is now — there

is a smile / there is no smile —

no will to start / no way to stop

the who or what the selves might

be, could crave, must surely

claim — everything is change