there are three of me at the least.
one so young that now he forgets.
he began of a light as joy, although
no name was given it.
this was moving light to dim.
most that followed was middleness.
time was given over in search of what
was never missing anyway.
you say to me otherwise
yet it seems to me that just the
other day we were holding hands.
that endured a long long time.
for all the days of love professed
now life says simply… show me.
now is the transition to being me
with no shape whatsoever.
like tongues written on water.
being closer to words surrendering
their clothes. closer to the beginning
than the middle is.
and dim will hand over all meaning
to one bright face.
words will be all poem again
as light will speak. me too.