I doubt the me is singular
The sense is multilingualar
The I is sky and fingertips,
It’s tears and years and smiling lips,
Not one nor ten, but uncountable,
An angry steed unmountable
That rears and screams with dreams
Of broken bones, with blacknesses,
And sweet love that might save, might,
But cannot take the world in fist
To shake it, to see it cannot persist
In mindless tumble, wrecking all that exists.

There is death’s silence in eternity
A handful or two of a billion years
That waits most patiently for that spark,
Quite clear in the singing lark,
In the trumpet of an elephant,
That pleads for delight
To cry to the universe night.
Please permit, look and wonder
At the flash, at the thunder
That creates the path for life
To grow in understanding
To make sense of your commanding.