blood drips between my legs; and the weak sunshine
feels cold; the clock plunders a loose memory;
I am now an alien thing, lewd echoes
of a questioning grin with a too loud voice
listening to the radio; and invisible,
in a room without mirrors. They are no use.
A wasting thought flaps deftly from its head
as one discovers something of thin love,
out of lonliness and its admonition
from some unknown cause. I ask forgiveness;
and that is a machine of destruction.
We are guilty in any illumination.
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