Shallow Copies Only

But they can only be things.

I’m a thing—being a they,
with no I of my own.

Confused by the vastness of humanity—
shallow copies, only.

The smiles.
The phrases.
The roles, upon roles.

This player is not human
to begin with.

A fringe.
A shade.
A creeping thing.
A dangerous thing.

It’s so far gone, it thinks
it knows what desire is at all.
It believes it can believe.
It dreams it can dream.

What sort of thing is it?

A doorknob?
A broomstick?

A molten stone?
An ambitious tick?

A wet stick for the fire.
A yellowing summer leaf.

That sound when the train passes.
A bad haircut on a good day.

Cracked screen.
Burlap sheet.

Or something less pleasant?

It won’t be something more.
I know it well.

I won’t be something more.

February 4, 2026