Do I Doubt The What That I Am?

Do I doubt the what that I am?
I, a strange seam in the secret streets.
I who barely am.

But feel how the night
wants me to be a thing,
how it brushes past me,
a cape of quickening ache,

silent, possessed with infinite touch,
that rouses me to seeing,
how it distinguishes me
from the tree and the fish.

It peels me from myself,
leaf by aching leaf,
scatters my pages
to the lost hours of the wind.

But I am, I am
dying, burning, being.
Night wants me to be a thing,
surrounded by the scent

the others secrete.
Their sexual sadness,
their lamented joy,

and the first and last breath and dream,
endlessly lost
and then found again,
like a discovered moon.
Do I doubt the what that I am?

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