Sense Of Self

I was first awakened, by a delivery, my ashen frame, brought along /a little cold blue hell, admonished,/ turned over in the dawn, /in the middle of a fight/, roughhouse style ,with no a answer. just a baby’s stumble. /Eager for an answer, I scanned random aircraft ,/in much the same manner/ I listened once for train whistles./ Without a working memory,/ no working clock,/ I dressed in a shroud, sat upright,/brought my focus to a pile of cans./ In the blue shroud I was wrapped in, joyous/I hit the pavement:/I let others carry my movement’s burden ,/in a house of secret and violation. /Each movement, childlike, /known to a few who, in time, sweated /as desperate culprits…they owed me…

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