Where go the small pieces of Self
lost in certain knowledge,
washed from reach
when waves of innocense break hard
against apathy more sudden than rock?

Do they float?
Are we nothing but flotsam and jetsam
cast off by other Selves
carried our way in currents of possibility?

Do these drift along such vastness, aimless
til caught on spurs that are future memories
solid for one brief Now, an irrational goodwill
too soon re-liquified by lives of white hot loss?

Or have they our names upon them
even before launch?

Can we be more than all our pieces,
more than Self itself?

But where do they go, what we shed like feathers
one here, one there, each time we spread a wing?

Nothing is lost.
Love, not knowledge, is certain.

They must go somewhere.
Do they erupt into the air like seeds
and soar above dreams, fly beyond sleep
descending only with a coming rain?

Maybe we just forget where we found them
and they never go.