Hear me, here me

It is in the way one focuses in with their entire skin

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.

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

which is why mirrors won’t work in-side,

over-time.
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 others on this plane

as day.

Painting by Winslow Homer, The Red Feather (1864) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.