I don’t know what to do with my self

and indeed I can seldom locate it.

I’m circled on maps but as I advance

a dust has covered the traces.

In living rooms and in limbo,

on all fours and on tiptoe I’ve chased it.

I’ve read the self-help literature,

Bergson et al and etcetera:

the brain is but a filter

and in theory all can be heard and seen,

what is now and what has been,

all time is on my fingerprints,

its garbage overflows the bins

and I am blown by violins

to search myself to smithereens,

down half-remembered alleyways -

the detritus of yesterdays

has settled on this counterpane.

Let’s fumble hooks and zips and slips

so intimately intricate,

let’s laugh and listen to the drips

of a viscous blue percussionist.

Let’s steal a ball with a private invite

and dare the world pursue us.

At daybreak when the dust lies flat

and the great birds hover and squawk,

I’ll shrink smaller than invisible

and beg you to turn on the dark.