I’m going to take a chance and tell you

I have a lot to be humiliated about,

that I should probably be embarrassed

by the curiosity I feel

when I say that,

often, I feel empty enough to wonder

if chairs cried me into being.

Though I suppose

being an individual is like that:

My audience of empty chairs with unblinking

eyes won’t stop making the point

where being happens blurrier and blurrier,

until the moment I no longer understand

what it is I am seeing

becomes as clear as the inside of the rain cloud

my crying resembles,

a more livable way to be humiliated, I think, 

to simply lean back and let myself down

into the proud and thirsty earth

my chairs have always been supported by.