the I in a poem is never alone
the I is a time machine
the I is a multitude
buried, half-erected, sticking out
pieces, unfinished, parts, particles
cut, reverberated, agitated
reclaimed, the I stands in several rooms
at the same time, the I jumps from one time to the next
from one word to the next
the I thinks and feels in associations
out of body, within the mind, internalised
who said the dead are not alive
the dead surround the I
there is no chronology
there is only one collective body of truth
branching out
poetry is not a time machine
poetry means catching insects, hairs and leaves
all at once without hesitation
and releasing them as parts of a whole
that is not chronological
the I in a poem is you
we become one another
you’re looking for me when you should be looking for yourself
Croque-Melpomene 