More Than Myself

Not that it was beautiful,
But that, in the end, there was
A certain sense of order there;
Something worth learning
In that narrow diary of my mind,
In the commonplaces of the asylum
Where the cracked mirror
Or my own selfish death
Outstared me. . .
I tapped my own head;
It was glass, an inverted bowl.
It’s small thing
To rage inside your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself.

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