the questions begin before the
womb and continue in perpetuity,
like brazen-string confetti in
an infinite sand storm;
ever colorful, ever messy, open-
ended wanderings, wondering — who am I?
how did I get here? where am I going?
why is the sky blue? when will I know?
words directed at no one and every one,
belted out into the night, up against the
pelt of longing stars — shooting back down
and into us like missile wishes:
wanting to know, to be known,
to see what others see when they
look at me; to crack the mysteries
of the two-way looking glass,
the four pulsing chambers,
the four chords pulling us
into the stubborn harmony
of our dissonant selves.