wants to know what to do next,
and you can’t tell it
You can’t even tell it
who is listening to its questions,
if it is not the head itself. Maybe
it’s one of those old distinctions
at work — heart, head, hands.
Perhaps your hands are talking to your head,
or perhaps the heart has its own voice
and that is what is bugging the head for action.
The bigger question: where are you, exactly,
in the mix? Do we need to pull
the soul into the inquiry? Or perhaps this is
a case of ego, id, superego at play;
anima or animus goading the persona
to action while the shadow sits aside chuckling.
All this speculation gets you is panic,
is a spur of the moment step out the door
in a T-shirt and pajama pants
in mid-January. You have no idea
who’s doing what inside your shell;
maybe, just maybe, you’re just plain nuts;
but look: a coyote
trotting down the sidewalk
on the other side of the street,
much to your mild surprise.
It does not look back at you as it passes.
As if it should. As if in any space
where Coyote runs
you, you hero,
you man of the hour,
could mean a thing —
you go back inside
brimful of silence.