Whom

 

I look for myself in my lists,

Long, forgotten piles of thoughts

And good ideas,

Links, between things,

and I.

I is the gap between thinking.

I is the hand that gathered

the broken pieces of the pot,

and poured them into

a space within my mind.

I is on a map somewhere,

One of those drawn up differently,

Connecting places with thoughts,

A cerebral landscape 

With colours so bright

The synaptic leaps are astounding. 

I is not to be found

in this mirror,

or that.

Even the one that shows me

waving,

Though I didn't mean to be.

That image is so flat

it fades into some other interior

part of its pattern,

Like mottled wallpaper.