.
There, next to a begonia
whose rose-tinged leaves are burnished
succulent and still
my self is in a room
near a window in the sun
its feet upon a sill
—then, as now, it takes down
or makes up the tale of itself
in sight of the star above a pine
past noon remembering,
telling the story of itself
to itself, becoming itself,
spinning its character
from threads of old and new seconds
it stitches into its days and months
of turned-over leaves
(as clear as the nose on the face of itself
but strange too as it tells and tells)
who reads between the lines of itself
following the story’s spell
back to the start of itself
in the beginning, before which
and beyond the last leaf,
there’s nothing to denote
That’s all he wrote—
by Jim Culleny
1/23/13
Blink 