Poem 57

piecemeal, i put myself together
from scrapyard leaflet poltergeists.
am i substance or drain water.
do i exist or consist of mists.

 

we broke something in the world.
we broke something in the world,
and it broke something in me.

 

my skin, foe leather, stranger garb.
i discover me in a yorick lawnscape
a fellow of infinite jest,
displacing investigations i flee,
climb a flag pole with no flag.
i was too aloof, now i’m absent.

 

i broke for the woods too soon
i left the house burning.

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