Confront yourself to the point at which
you cannot move, or move slowly enough

it goes unnoticed, and only during
crepuscular hours. Is there anything more

stranger than your own voice telling you when
you didn’t tell it to? You are now unfull

of yourself, bursting with the long meal
worms of otherness, of reflection deflected

away from the counterpart, yet the details of being
human cannot be ignored. Sleep is a river of

selfishness, of psyche getting the better of you.
How will the man who has never once

seen a mirror, never stooped to a stream,
pick himself out of a lineup? It is not enough

that you have provided milk and cookies
to sustain what isn’t there. You must also eat.