Confession of an Egoist

I was born pale
and fading like an old bulb.
I want to die this way,
colorless, with a constant
becoming of the air
around, just to dissolve
like a cube of sweet cane
gone, gone,
from the life as
a bird of paradise
spread like a Japanese fan.
Eyes all over me.

In the rarity of being unaware,
fleetingly negligent of
the backs of my hands,
lark hands, the same
lark skin as my neck-
I remember
in the womb I choked myself
into lending some flesh.
If I could just lay on top of you
we might stop breathing
long enough to love the air,
the colorless and constant
becoming of the air,
becoming of everything, all matter,
becoming of the reality bearing
of the becoming of my reverie.

What would you give to become the wind?
Cold with me, strong with me
across continents like a
continental lust for the surface
ennerving the tops of trees,
swinging in hard limbs,
morphing into water
and running down cliffs.
At times I look up and realize
the clouds are still moving.
In theory,
we could hide in these clouds;
but you, like those before,
will fade in the zenith of people
with their pallid operettas
and bastard eyes.
You were born alive and well,
alive and well.

OK,
I will give you the confession of an egoist:
I want to die alone.