who is it that dances through
the dawn?

that plays the tambourine
that drinks and loves
and lies abandoned?

it is this I that has no truth
no sense of self, this role
play in a suit, a tie,
hard hat or shorts.

who is it that lives in
sunny clime or winter chill?

it is I, not I
no self there nor there
ever was

not I, the I that rarely
is, a diamond rough,
cut of stuff ineffable.

who is it that sees me now?
why you, mirror of my sigh
and you are you, who you?