The Self Poem by Robert Ronnow

What kind of day was it. Clean
the house. Notice the full moon.
Read a sheaf of old poems.
Listen to jazz tunes. Open mail.

Refuse to make of it more
than it was. What is it for,
don't ask. Squirrel or spider
your cares are yours to savor,

enjoy or fear. Tinnitus
of the ear, sinusitis
of the nose, bale contriteness
of the soul. Moriturus.

Consider economy
soul's eponymity.
The opening canopy
panoramic mystery.

Neither joyful nor depressed.
Not the worst and not the best.
I lived, as did my dentist.
To the east and west, the self.



'The study of myself is the study of all I do not know.' - Montaigne