What are we?

Every thing needs a spirit, and every
spirit needs a thing.

Every morning, the clear-eyed beast
puts me on like a cloak, a clock,
a passport, a point

of entry into this. I am: its home
address, its current set
of keys, coordinates. It has

many eyeholes – I am one set.
Would you like to see it,

the white that will remain when I
am said and done? How it moves me,

and I know that there is only one, so you
must be it too.

How would we know ourselves
it if were not for our separation,
sortation into various bags of skin?

I say: touch me, that it may touch itself.