Let the Edges Run

And if the self is just a question
asked until the edges run —

ask me again,
and again,
until even the asking softens

Just the ink, wet at the border.
Just the asking, blurring outward.

Not: who am I, finally?
But: who am I, this time? in this light? with this love?

Rilke said to live the questions.
Not to solve yourself like a puzzle,
but to water yourself like a garden
and see what grows up through the bleed.
maybe you were never meant to be an answer.

So let the edges run.
let me blur, let me bleed,
let the water take the line from me.

I don't want to be solved,
I want to be spilled.

A sharp line was never the truth of you anyway.