I Am More Yourself

I am more yourself than you mean to be. 

I clench clay in hand therapy, alongside parallel 

people shacking up with straps and widgetry 

to reclaim their prior selves before the accident. 

I think of you surveiling possible forces protecting

innocence as it purports to flower when we least seek 

to reclaim vestments evident to the naked eye.

I am more yourself than yesterday when feline calming 

smoothed its way toward me, in a dream unraveling 

near the imagined sea. I don't know how to navigate

waves rushing their ritual sprawl and and pulling back, 

dazzling their glimmer of fresh blue youth 

beneath cloud shadows. I tell myself you have not 

been listening, to speech formed as threads of silk

imperfectly woven into new function.

I am more yourself than your reputation for distance.

I retrieve what I have known of you, shaping 

raw material that reflects hypothesized depth of feeling

you claim is aimed toward me. If I were you, 

I would not know who you are despite the mirror 

squarely positioned within the walnut frame polished

to imperfection easily recognizable.