Closing my eyelids in the sunlight,
I remember why
it is a blessing for blurry lines.
When objects fade into objects
so that there is only one,
I feel saved from having to be someone.
The regular, steep delineations from person
to person, from one life to the next,
compartmentalizes the world into
boxes and boxes within which we need
craftier tools to escape.
There are no straight lines in nature.
Change was demonized along with women.