Identification is physically slight—

a small rectangle

of paper or plastic.

And it asks little of us—

a matching of names and faces.

It calls itself ID for short.

Simple, clean, certain.

But its arrogance is vast and shapeless.

ID proclaims to know, to identify—

that is its only job, after all—

but its ignorance is vast and changeless.

It knows nothing of identity,

forged through tears and sweat,

shakes and grins, clenches and sighs—

not to be found in cultural relics,

institutional departments,

categorical assignments,

printed documents, or

geometry.