The problem with the ego
is the Me-of-it: ‘you’, however,
is a dog-eared geography
text book, black-
and-white photos, block
graphs, annual sunshine,
emotional infrastructure,
outlying settlements,
failing tongues.

The ‘Me’ problem is rainfall,
flood defenses, burnt
bridges, verbal seepage.

Upstream, there’s innocence,
although I was late
in coming to it. Trivia
turned tumult. Shaded
uplands throng with everything
pre. I remember nothing
of this, not even Narcissus
bent over his uncharged
cell-phone. The first selfie
of the day.

Then the rain. The bed widens.
The landscape chokes
on its population of ash and sparrows.

The weight of ‘me’
pounds against abandoned jetties
like lemonade fizzed up
by ferries’ jiving
between equidistant
nowheres. Water
is a medley of jostling debris
on a tide of everything you wished for
but later forgot –
Africa: Manhattan.

The ‘me’s’ depths
surface. An advert
for froth.

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