I am more
than the flame extinguished
at the forefinger and thumb,
of established thought.

I am more
than the alien footfall
as I pass through the daytime streets,
of functioning life.

Oh, how I hope I am more
than these textbooks and fissures
of time between you and I,
between then and now.

I am more
than these spidery hand-prints
that fog and dim my glass,
glass of wine and budget meal.

I am more
than this home, this flesh, this lack
of gut, this bone; more,
than I could ever care to know.

Oh, how I hope I am more
than cyclical thought,
the process of remembering
what I've chosen to forget.

And, I am more, so much more
than this insistence of 'tomorrow'
for, I am more within the present,
than ever could I be elsewhere.