I mailed myself in boxes
Quite compressed in liquor walls
The whole wide west of middle.
Yet some of me
Has failed to be delivered,
Lost in flight or sea and postal muddle.
Numbers two two and eleven,
Unencumbered, freed to dust
My slumber from their eyes.
Which “I” was in those mailings?
Some disguise of clothing?
Spices potent and pugnacious?
Or was it she who swam
But poorly, danced but rarely,
Knitted almost never?
Thus unknowns left behind
May have the largest heft of all.
No theft—and mild confusion marks the rest.
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