PINKY'S LAMENT

I can't take my eyes off me and it's driving me mad ... someone's dying I ask myself how will I handle my sorrow ... someone's talking and I'm wondering how will I make them understand the truth of what I'm about to say ... I wouldn't mind but after a while I get curious and I want to see who it is I spend so much time looking at ... then I have it ... for a second ... but it isn't me for it's already gone ... it's never me ... I'm always going gone ... then I get it for the second time ... there isn't any me there ... it's more like a pulse than a drop of blood ... as subtle as a fiction instead of a fact ... an intention never rising to a deed ... or if I make to be bold it soars above the deed that now is done ... it is the doing ... I am the act ... and so I am even in my sleep ... but whose act is it ... after all these years I no longer think it's mine ... or it's only one finger in a glove and probably the pinky if I were so lucky and smart as to move with the hand ... but mostly I will not ... and then I'm as useful as the little sleeve cut from the glove ... empty and all alone ... wondering where it went wrong that now it has so little substance ... oh for a bit of a breeze to puff me up and blow me away