Wanderlust

I have breathed this air before, returned
to me after having circulated
through abrupt pantings and gasps,
through ulterior sighs and growls,
through wild laughter and sobs:
and I, when I released it last,
was I so much different, so far removed
that even the atmosphere must remind me
nothing new is under the sun?
I have stayed in one place
for millions of years, like a species
that forgot somewhere how to evolve;
I have remained motionless
for weeks, as if I were like glass,
a liquid that forgot how to pour;
and if I forgot myself, in the world
there would be one me-shaped hole
that everyone notices, but nobody talks about.
So what is it that I have to do?
I move some matter from one arrangement
into some other one, while I am
strangely me through all that happens:
and my wanderlust comes and goes,
but I have no choice but to travel through life.