Autotheory


             

The problem

with saying the problem


is everything is

human is one of those


always already

theoretical conundrums.


The problem is everything

is funneled into language


before we even taste the air

is humid and the body is


swaddled to hide it from others.

Hide, noun, the skin


of an animal. Or hide, verb,

to keep out of sight,


as in the sentence: the sacred relic

had been hidden away in a sealed cavern,


with the dictionary’s passive voice

hiding its subject,


perhaps just a kid still,

digging holes in the backyard


to stow away a colorful rock,

some coins, a time capsule,


childhood itself

not yet subterranean.


To hide it from others.

As if there were a self


contained by atmosphere

alone, and not


just the word self holding me

like a hand-knitted skin,


a nebula. As if from, say,

outer space, I could look


into a single eye

when I pluck up the planet


and hold it

by the scruff of its neck.

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