I read that the left side

reveals the true self.

But I have begun to suspect

that my true self has been

stitched to another face.

I am noticing

not even my words fit.

I listen to what the

mouth is saying.

But I write in a small

notebook—

Where is the body of

this person?

Not only that,

every day the transit system

is a minute later.

The driver snores

while he waits for the signals

to change.

At the same time,

without my approval,

my feet move far away

in black plastic

Lately I have deduced that

at night a surgical thief enters.

The eyes in the mirror

are not mine.

Recently the nose,

that was my nose,

is clearly not my nose at all.

Every day I am looking

for my face

among the faces

that I pass;

for my body,

a certain comfortable

size;

my voice, that even

now is not the one

that I remember.