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.
the real subject is always you 