Entitled. But bearing no born title. How can it be?
Without name, to know thyself, is to glimpse mystery.
The black, dead surface of water
plainly seen but not seen through.
There is revelation here.
Like secrets in that deep black.
Rerisen rapture and near.
Close under the surface expression
embittered old truthless
We are beyond all other words and more,
definitions, names, the titles and handy ways
we live like we actually know we are, or aren’t we.
How to smile into the face of a stranger pretending
she knows him when he made sure she never could.
One superficial rippled line constituting a surface
is not enough, neither is two, or three.
Is that what we meant?
Or is it just
the mask we put on mystery.