(You Are Here) Whose Who's There
There is no single you and all of them are one. You only need
to choose—not one, not two, not any given few or countless many—
but just to be. It comes whirling to your thoughts like thistleseed
riding on the wind. It spreads its roots and shoots along the veiny
network of your nerves. The storming pages in the snowglobe
of your humid dream sift down around the floating base of the figurine
that's you. The boat drifts on your river red and the Boatman in his robe
looks back at you. The serous current of the river flows between
the here and now and all that's unforetold and waiting for your telling.
You've slipped the abysmal maze of Morpheus and burst the bubble
of distortion. Feeling like a genie just decanted from an ancient bottle,
you hear the old guy chuckle in the prism of your forebrain, quelling
any thought of closure. You are here, but your tapestry is mended
for the meantime only. The weave and its embroidery open-ended.