Sonnet #382

 If I can lose a part and not lose myself,

That part must not be part of me, just shells

And machinery, the illuminations of the kells

Were not the book, just an ornament to sell

The story, and I wonder if my individuation

In all this noise that is not me requires filigree

Of form a timbre of voice a gestured smile and free

For any mark of memory to come from

Aye, the story of the man is not the story of the hand

But the story of what I do with it, yet

Without the hand, without the eye, and 

Without the voice, I am still myself, but you

See a tree that falls in the forest must be witnessed

For what use is self without the rest of the forest