Writing identities

I started out as
a shadow leaning
over a fence,
observing myself
closely

as though I were trying
to untangle
a rhetorical figure
from the tiniest

moon. I smiled,
half-mesmerized,
half-stunned, wondering
about the meaning of anything.

I was in the middle
of a rainbow,
a place of oz,
where the unconscious
dissolves,
a troubadour without a name,
an origin or identity.

I erased the words
I had written some time ago;
yes and no and back
to the first time,

the first step--
like walking on the moon,
a snowball in my hands.