More Than Myself

 Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me .
 .
 .

I tapped my own head;
it was glass, an inverted bowl.

It's small thing
to rage inside your own bowl.

At first it was private.

Then it was more than myself.

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