The imitations of life are gilded
and surrounded by an armamentarium
of mental ballasts,
advertorials of mind,
medicines and magazines,
and lord, so many photos.
They are icons, and they multiply.
Icons of icons of icons.

I'll stop defining myself.
In the Moorish style, my selfhood
won't be depicted, recursively, in myself,
yet I'll be hiding in plain sight
from you, from me,
in the interlaced patterns
on my temple's walls.

There's an endless story being told,
and the teller is the listener
is the protagonist.
He seems familiar, but I don't know him.
It is late, it is eternal.
I douse the fire, go to sleep,
and dream of nothing.