In the long run, even
the guru
loses—
says,
I wish I was
still curious about
what it's like
to be me;
I wish I still was
interested
in the beautiful blue
of new bruises.
When I write these things now,
does it sound like
I have a tendency
to take myself
as the exception?
Very well then:
I admit, I stand alone,
half-hidden
by my breaks
and overuses—
and I wait
in seclusion
for all that I've lost
to be dreamed of
in this poem.
