some fitness of my mind
can almost touch you.
I am not anonymous under this
spell.
My doubt streches wry,
craggy branches around it...
but you see me, too.
A wormhole on my turf
where you and I still stand
with spider-silk wings
on our cheeks,
In fitful silence
broken only by the
notion I hold in my palm,
that this is somehow greater
than I am.
I'm still tracing the maps
in my hands,
the evolution of me,
the great, punctuated
equilibrium
of you,
And I am neither anonymous
nor celebrity.
I am simply here
and I am recognized.
