I was looking for the life
               I’d already lived
For a self I knew how to be

Was it the me in a monastery
               For six years
Sleepwalking into spirituality

Was it the self-interested Jim
               Leading a march
Against a war that had my number

Was it my writing self on a retreat
               With Robert Bly chanting:
One drop of ocean water
Holds all of Kierkegaard’s prayers

Was it the clueless
               Husband and father
Who dropped the ball

Was it me as the proprietor
               Of a list of paramours
Who would never remember my name

After a last dark alley of conquest
               I decided to be the guileless guy
Running after my own scruples

Then you opened the door for me
               A casual visit 
with my brother to buy soap

Light seeped out of your eyes
               And stuck
With its attendant thunder

My arrest was complete