to yammering Twains and muted Cages,
I have been listening, intent on comprehending
which requires presence of mind-a-ware-ness-or
No-thing from me.
I have filled my creased palms gathering
dust others have lain out for me,
they say, fit me,
Fine.
So it may be.
So it may be.
The young lady with the feather in her hat-
the old lady with a crooked nose
saving face, the youth refuses to come out
behind memory
behind memory
which is why mirrors won’t work in-side,
over-time.
They have me pegged,
They have me pegged,
and while wedged, with my arms tucked,
I have taken a moment to look around
and recognize my proximity
to the precipice,
to the precipice,
to others on this plane
as day.
Painting by Winslow Homer, The Red Feather (1864) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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