Am I?

Existential poem. One day, after class, I layed on the picnic table in the warmth of sping wondering, 'Perhaps there is nothing here at all...'

 

And so I sit,

thinking:

            perhaps there is nothing here

                        at all.

The distant things,

            the cherryblossms,

            the passing cars,

            even the flags beckoning in the distance,

      are no match for this feeling.

This hollow feeling.

     Perhaps I am invisible,

            or blind.

     Then I would never know.

I feel the wind,

     I feel the goospimples

     coming to birth down my legs.

            My long legs.

Perhaps I am invisible.

     No more there

     than the wind;

     or the cherryblossoms -