My I

Tasting it lightly, feeling more slightly

woozy. Soon we wander outside: look

the stars are new, they’ve jumped askew

and only the outline remains. Passing out,

further, further, I’ve seen something new:

you, you, that nameless eye, the voice inside,

the analyst, the heart, the beating mind,

the casting of,

the momentary I.

The actor sleeps, seeps calm relief,

yet still you seek, you, the I outside.

The eye in me, closed, unprized

when the flares leap up, the chaste unsigned

that, casting reflection, from my body and I.

The sleepless dream, wrought to be undone,

in the dreamless sleep, the more real, the one

I is what I am, yet the other sun,

burning too bright, out casting the night

in which the small I flickers, the noonday shade,

the majesty of temporality, from your heart outlaid

is that moment of mystery, the mind cast down,

the body unwound and the conscious I out:

out to the stars and the infinitude outside,

the casting of alms to the greatest I might.