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When the Words are Placed in My Mouth, or a Self Portrait
All catastrophic teeth and gutter bones
Trenches running heart to leg
Heart to stomach
Heart to brain
A mercy diseased with dry eyes
And thin muscle and staggering lips and the wolf mouth.
A justice diseased with soft hands
And feathered wrists and a sparrow laugh.
A being that inhales holy and exhales dust
Dust that settles.
Dust that works into the fabrics
Of coats and dresses
Into the warp of brains and the weft of bodies.
A censored force of nature
Like a hurricane behind a silk screen
Or a word
Behind the curtain-lips
Of a man too afraid to speak.
That’s what you are.
Balanced. Too balanced. Static.
Too close to too many things.
Terminally still.
Alive. Asleep.
Perhaps we can stir you to wake
Perhaps your consciousness will tip into awareness.

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