I am the expanse of purposeless selves before me,/ summated like the stickily-shaded colours under/ a calculus-course curve, whose trajectory marks me across one axis/ to the next, just as I am the small drops of cloud squashed/ into one another as an ocean I now glare at, whose sands/ meeting the horizon are later stewed into the clearer edges/ of a mirror so that this glare may continue. There was a myth of a man/ who projected himself into a pool of water until he thinned away/ into anorexias of young girls with camera phones pointed/ towards their white faces. Snakes eat their tales sometimes./ Narcisuss is a poet. White girls are poets. I've swallowed them all/ into my large black mouth. When I speak: soft-spoken integrations,/ meagre, selfless, hollow-- filled with stagnant historical airs formatted/ cleanly now on a word-processor-- while my hand reaches across my navel,/ bored, digging: then a birth there as my spine cracks across my bedsheets/ with my lamplight flickering as candles once did,/ and shadows wall-dancing with the idea of ancient meanings/ now lost but never once there, self-defining, self-signifying, self-pointing,/ self-shaking self-but-not-self./