In a Nutshell
Each thing can be itself only
itself only insofar
as it is so far something else.
To be itself nothing
nothing can be itself by itself
or the black-eyed junco.
I’ve had a black eye.
That was delight to remember.
The lonely ghost of self inhabits
the self-haunted self.
My dad’s ashes sit on the shelf.
Rhubarb leaves and walnut twigs,
those cigarettes will kill ya.
Each smoke adventures the self-same garb.
Habit inhibits the self-haunted self.
In each city where some bell knells
are yellow fingers.
The goldfinch remembers when there was a feeder.
Each thing can only be yourself
only self insonear
as it’s
coffee grounds on a compost heap.
My mother doesn’t rest where she lies
where she lies true to herself to nothing.
Electric stove coils glow the same
but gas burners are easy to figure.
The mirror’s adjusted just a hair
to make believe I’m all myself.
Nothing’s the mirror of all the selves
and a common (choose one) grackle.
Right now I’m eating some cheddar.
— Basil Cartryte
2025-04-29
(NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 29)