a little blue and red person
screamed I was her
imposter.
I cannot contrive this.
And when I wept, it was not
for poets
it was for me
for me, who begs stranger
to cut away the serpent
I haven't listened
the serpent with flattened
head that flops
with more alleged anxiety
than I
because I
can use tears and splash
through them when
new men come knocking,
visiting monuments
other than
themselves.
I come to you hungry
bent from watching
my hands and feet
roam about, making.
I crackle toward you
grinning and rickety.
You see I am you
but you want you
for your own.
You want credit for your
agony, and you want me
to go home. You want
to protect this road
from the demon
in my simper.
in my simper.
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