riddled with selves
no longer there
the I
is not
in the poem
and disappears
out of the light
of the moon
and eyes
to see
the I

what is permanent
is past
every ‘ever’
is an ever after
as the evening rain
disappears

there is no language
for absence
no word for
certainty

without the rough edge of another voice
I am a self made only of distant others