After Heraclitus

After Heraclitus, I don’t know how many of me there are,
because I can’t put the same face in the mirror twice, put
the same foot in my same mouth each passing day

Am I a crowd, a multitude which might have been called
in Biblical times,  numerous “as the stars in the sky”,
but falls well short given how we now count the stars?

Is there a thread that runs all the way through the labyrinth
of me, through all the different ones I am and can be,
a thread like a signature that stays itself as it changes?

A living maze is its own riddle,  so to speak of its finding
a way is an absurdity - to imagine that I could come 
to recognize myself is one more limp-stepped conceit