I'm going in-between things that mean the same thing
like baseball hats and backpacks
like my leg is your leg.
our muscles each are named the same, scientists and doctors
and third grade gym teachers have told us
with charts
and books.
as I'm trying to inch myself away from what I was in
the twelfth circuit around that beautifully harsh sun,
and closer to what that girl is
the one I see, on the street,
by way of this blood-rush blush I'm brushing over 
my cheek peaches,
I'm whispering to myself,
"identity is a false god"

I think my handwriting is changing but that 
leg is still a leg is a leg.
the Great Big Push inside of all of us,
my cat, my cactus,
the purring race-car named Awake,
I'm whispering to myself,
"that's the point,"

tiny energy crumbs are kissing each other
playing, warring, resolving each other
every little mote is a poltergeist floating, waiting 
to do tricks.
I am sitting cross-legged. I am boundless heartbeats.