A poem without a name, by Cameron

the experience of self as separate

as entity

we have a word

at least

but to transmit the experience itself –

how imperfect our means,

even in trying to recite an instant

                a painting, a moment

                constructed from hours

                of labor and thought

                or a photograph

                pieces of pose and exposure

to feel only one

in a sea of other selves

and barely that,

so much of the self

trapped in semantics

to forget

we fuck, we love

to feel someone else

and to be felt

wordless