Snake Eyes
That force is lost
which shaped me, spent
in its image, battered, an old brown thing
swept off the streets
where it sucked its
gentle living.
And
what is meat
to do, that is driven to its end
by words? The frailest gestures grown
like skirts around breathing.
We
take
unholy risks to prove
we are what we cannot be. For instance,
I am not even crazy.
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