The poet has no identity. She is an electrical cloud she is a swarm of
bees she is a kabuki scream she is a shadow on the blind the plates in a
cupboard the roar of trucks on a freeway. She is the fiery neurone and
the mark on a piece of paper. She speaks on the telephone into the
ether. No one there. Maybe it is god. She writes her body with the
tips of her fingers but it is no longer her body. The words are not hers
they belong to nobody. She writes to slough off her name. She speaks to
become invisible. She desires to be what she is. When she wakes into
her name it is falling asleep again. When she dreams she forgets. She
is blind. She has the power of flight.
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