I’m beginning to understand myself:
I exist in the space my cells leave behind
every seven years when they make room
for a new set of pixels to move in.
Myself: a fleeting entity, made of fugitive parts.
In the first cycles, the transitions refreshed me.
Now, not so much; now,
I make the most of my territory
while those mites rush past me, their time up,
and the next crew of aliens debates moving in.
I’m tough, that’s what I know. No matter what
molecular stuff’s shuffling through the door,
it’ll leave me alone soon enough,
so I kick my slippers to the floor,
turn off the light and ignore what’s coming.
I relax—I’m introducing my mind
to my mind again. In an incognito world,
it’s not myself I won’t know.