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I Can See Myself in Everything
I endure my arrogance like a leftover twin
absorbed during gestation,
seeing myself in everything, not only the eyes
that watch me back-rocking to flip my house right-side up.
What’s left on the roadside is mine, too.
I am wholly grateful for the retrospect when I listen,
slump-cheeked and reddening with introspective embarrassment,
dumb as an eyeball glaring down the barrel of a mandatory gavel.
Argumentation is the art of capitulating as a sail pulls
its head down in a strong wind.
It is the biggest picture, zoomed in to view our passage,
out to capture rainfall in a tarp, knowing
the ocean won’t miss a few drops.
Of my arrogance and I, our story, I will it
to the lowest bidder, as sinners seeking asylum
inside an empyrean reliquary,
only the meekest among them may enter.
I will that our seizing be taken for breathing
and leaves us to being, finally, ourselves.
Without intervention of opinion, although taken
with salt, is a different flavor of reason that brings us
to alphabet soup I see myself in, because soup
is part of the everything I mentioned.
Copyright ©
Jaymee Thomas
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