What I Am

   What I was is not what I am,
   and what I am is not what I was.

   Time keeps editing the lines of my face.
   I wake wearing yesterday’s questions,
   but they fit differently by noon.
   Memory argues with the mirror of my acts,
   both convinced they are telling the truth.

  Change doesn’t ask permission—  

  it just keeps walking,

  and I follow with new understandings,

  almost myself.