Houseguest in Your Own Existence

Breathing reminds you of this—
You’re the overlapping set
Chain-linking body and mind,

What gets lived with what gets said,
An intersection, a slice
Inhabiting both at once,

Identical to neither.
You’re not yourself conjoined.
You’re the part that is conjoint.

So it’s a little awkward,
Isn’t it? You’re less diffuse
Than the global whole of mind,

Less constantly part of life
Than body, wandering off
In states of what you call sleep,

What you call unconsciousness.
You try to be on good terms
With this home your being’s in,

But you’re the house’s own guest,
And a stranger to the house,
And part of the house itself.