Penitence’s Ruse

What kind of baggage is so heavy
that you cannot  see past its emptiness
all the same? Is it maroon like dried blood or
pinked crimson, like fresh, serrated flesh?

When you lift it, is there resistance?
Or is it a sudden, definite jerkiness
from a surprised nothingness —
–Or the anticipated spaciousness?

Is it even baggage which you tote?
Or the regrets of an idle heart?
Or more the weight of the truth
that there is no baggage — only you.

Apparently, wrote this last May?