each of us a tiny isle,
unnamed, even unmapped;
maybe a Hamlet, a village,
an unincorporated exist~ant,
but really really there
we are everywhere alone,
but must be
per force
somewhere
on the globe
the drawing of the globe,
is not metallic rigid,
metal bends, molts and twists
points, countries, cities
oceans and bays,
change
colors, names, and
infrequently, unbelievably
but why not,
new land masses
even and
so very oddly
emerge, rise up daily,
from beneath dark waters,
regurgitating secrets
from the depths unperceived
these human poems do not write themselves;
products of ever changing
fingers
but the characters of what we write,
and who we
are all tiny isles,
forming and splitting,
redrawn and spitting,
emergent, sinking, submerging
growing and shrinking
lasting and disappearing
and though we are all
fully constituted,
our changeling guises,
our constitution of atoms,
are
never
unceasingly
moving till they are
not