Wrapped around the I
the greatness of the rest is untouched

A voice that says
“this is who you are”.
And this, carried like clothing,
obscures the greatness of the rest.

We feel this garment as loose fitting
but somehow in comfort we keep it on.
Comfort? Or forgotten-full- ness?

I am thinking of:

a washer- woman; she lives
by the work of her hands; she knows
no conveniences – her
century knows yet not any
conveniences. Houses are
stone; work is hard.

Does she maintain a negative identity?

A fault in the I?