We Are Many

Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,

I cannot settle on a single one.

They are lost to me under the cover of

They have departed for another city.

When everything seems to be setto show me off as a man of intelligence,the fool I keep concealed on my persontakes over my talk and occupies my mouth.

On other occasions,

I am dozing in the midstof people of some distinction,and when I summon my courageous self,a coward completely unknown to meswaddles my poor skeletonin a thousand tiny reservations.

When a stately home bursts into flames,instead of the fireman I summon,an arsonist bursts on the scene,and he is I.

There is nothing I can do.

What must I do to distinguish myself?

How can I put myself together?

All the books I readlionize dazzling hero figures,brimming with self-assurance.

I die with envy of them;and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,

I am left in envy of the cowboys,left admiring even the horses.

But when I call upon my

NG

NG,out comes the same

LD

ZY

LF,and so I never know just

HO I AM,nor how many I am, nor

HO WE

LL BE

NG.

I would like to be able to touch a belland call up my real self, the truly me,because if I really need my proper self,

I must not allow myself to disappear.

While I am writing,

I am far away;and when I come back,

I have already left.

I should like to see if the same thing happensto other people as it does to me,to see if as many people are as I am,and if they seem the same way to themselves.

When this problem has been thoroughly explored,

I am going to school myself so well in thingsthat, when I try to explain my problems,

I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.