Entrouvert

Are you an unraveled thread hanging on a garment?
Not part of the fabric.
Not yet swept up with the dust?
Entrouvert.

Like Janus, spirit of the doors,
One facing into concentration,
the other into rest.
Peering into "Oh" and glancing back.
How can we recognize our self
when we are spread so thin?

It is not obey, but abeyance.
Not a thrill but still.
That I was like something seen in a photo album.
Me, but then, gone.
Today's vistas command the
only attention there is.