Most of me is not mine.

My provisions are provided to me
more than I provide.

I am almost wholly given,
by the force

that gives the sun,
gives birds,
gives wheat,
that thrusts up mountains,
that shoves flowers out of soil,
that troubles waters
and stirs wind.

Over the years I have learned
that only some of me I do myself.

I am a assemblage of things
not me and never mine.

I own next to nothing that is posing
as me in this garden chair right now.

The drop of blood on my rose pricked finger,
for instance, where did the iron come from?

How far a journey
and what effort to find me?

I happen,
as much a surprise to myself as to others.

Snooping around myself I find:

enthusiasm’s dog Frisky pulsing in my arms,
gobbling bread-crazed carp in Lake Pymatuning,
oysters sucked up off the half shell,
a story told by Jesus,
a father who called me son,
a child who called me father,
wet umbrellas, uprooted trees
and the storms that uproot trees,
a garage door opening slowly,
my high school friend Jim and
years working out at the gym,
Concord grapes staining my tongue.
bluebells printed on yellow wallpaper,
flies on a hog’s nose.

These stars form the constellation called ‘me’.
I am dreamed by some effusive mind each day
as I dream a world at night.

At dawn,
I dawn upon myself.