I am made out of many.
A yellow rose
spirals my shoulder;
a poinsettia blooms
beneath my collarbone.
I am grateful
for being created;
I practice leaving behind
my own falsely fashioned worlds:
theses grotesque places where I am the center
and the ones orbiting around me
are clattering me with criticisms
that are true to me.
(When will I know that I do not know?)
I am made out of many;
I escape from the falsely fashioned worlds
where I am fearful,
and enter again my sanctuary.
When I am clear and still,
I know myself:
the humor out of which I am formed,
God's cheerful laugh,
earth's fragrance, waters, and stains—
This blessed absurdity.