Eternal Self

In the puddled center of me, there is 
    a sense that sometimes flickers— when 
it's bright I'm convinced it must be 
    my eternal self, or something 
like its thumbnail. Other times 
    when I try to remember what 
it was that was trying to make itself 
    known, I say Who am I kidding? or 
O you old still unformed cell of my being. 
    Mornings, I get its recent telegrams; or 
its tight-muscled ambassadors ambush me. 
    When I flex, I press on the gas 
and pretend I'm arrowing down 49th street, 
    straight down to the beach. I want 
to roust, even just a little, the night 
    herons who are always leaving so much 
sticky goop on the roofs of cars.