He has entered them blind
as a cut worm.
He has swum their oceans
like a wounded fish
looking for home.
At nights when he can’t sleep,
he dreams of weaving
backward up that river
where the banks
are fringed with mouths,
& weedy hair
grows amid the dark crusts
of ancient blood.
Tonight he is afraid & lonely
in a city of meat & knives.
I would go under his knife
& move so willingly
that his heart
might turn to butter
in his mouth.
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The experience of fear is not an observer of it; he is fear itself, the very instrument of fear.
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For centuries
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Because you did, I too arrange flowers,
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Broken ivories
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