I must introduce myself to everything I meet.
Nothing knows I exist—nothing knows!

Where is everybody?
Who chooses to go on sabbatical rather than safari?
Whose fault that I exult, not exalt?
Nearly neatly concealed.

But Kilroy is gone
and Ariadne showed me no thread.
What people throw away should be lost,
shouldn't linger, tempt recollection.

The old sycamore at Montezuma's Well
                           or
the trumpet solo line from the Arutiunian.

Camera.  Microphone.  Computer.
Whatever I am, it isn't this.

Spare me your narrative of the narratives,
to attain and maintain, to affect an affront,
and the embarrassment of comprehension.

Let me be that me
that I saw from the start
as the destination.

Let everything I broke reappear
long enough for an apology;
let all that broke me return
long enough to apologize.

I am making all the noise.