A formless life. But enough self-knowledge
To feel the holes in it. It’s a torn amoeba
Flowing round its own gaps,
Blindly rolling its edges in, in,
Trying to enfold itself.
‘Big holes? two-dimensional, like sliced cheese?’
A helpful friend is fascinated
By the hopelessness of the details:
‘Or small, moussey holes, sort of shot through
Everywhere, like bubbles in soufflé? Spam?’
No. Wrong map. It’s like asking if you are loved.
Only one person will give the right answer,
Holding up one hand, not two, as the measure;
”This much”. The outer edge so far, and near,
It flies around the world
And back, to the back of that same hand.