in an infinite series where we approach each oth’r
Jejune, forked in some road that might have
cropped up anyhow to cross us barely ready
or were we unaware that we had cracked I
to save us, split us three ways
as the centuries that made us possible left us
with all possible comprises, we have this one
existence, this so many elsewheres, in others,
I, and in every elsewhere, us both
and so you have arrived, Jejune, and so I
in a million pictures of our face, and still
I was not myself, i am not myself, myself
resembles something having nothing to do
with me and the idea that I would like
a holiday, a whole lifetime from this bend
Copyright © 2020 by Canisia Lubrin. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
