I AM
Thrown
as Sartre would say
into this bipolar confusion
that ends in infinite silence,
the period to finitude.
Should I dare? To move?
As the shout from the box suggests?
Or is the box a work of art?
Am I a work of art?
Or the work of random rain?
Of plenitude or imperfection?
The stars are clear
and far away for lizards
to sit on and croak
their loud decrees
and final sentences
More ears, wide pans
like quiet satellite dishes are
waiting in isolation
for a few more words after
"I am".
