How I Look

I see how I look inside out, not how I look outside in. My Amtrak races between mountains and rivers, my traces, my inner spaces, my dawnings, my inner longings. I see how I look inside out, not how I look outside in. I leaf through fading pages of crumbling books bound with passion strings, broken by wounded fissures of regret. I see how I look inside out, not how I look outside in. Others declare me a man or fool, perhaps the father they never knew, perhaps the boss who fired them, or just the impostor they always hated. I see how I look inside out, not how I look outside in. I slowly abandon their puzzling projectiles, their momentary mocks. Such a child am I, even the petals of new love go unseen. I see how I look inside out, not how I look outside in. I take the long way alone, my feet heavy with clay, I wander the deep gloam, my mortal vessel, my only home. There is luminous grass beyond. There I will rest my head in the resplendence and comprehend that inside and outside are just a revolving door.