It's mine
but what is it?
selibut cloth all dusted and rusting
worn in a simulation by a re-enactor reliving an age that is better off forgotten
historical soul fracture innately in cotton
every evening
from the east
rhetorical gusts of tempermental logic
follow me like sleepers
walking out somnambulic
through shrouded distant coils
retracing the beautiful and sinister points that got paved over
when people started naming themselves

the new winds bequeath me ideas and memories
amnesia's assailant overwhelms my brain
as my thoughts become narrow theirs multiply
through my eyes
only my body and voice are really still mine

I greet new faces when I come home to my family

seeking a scape goat for their inacceptance of death
are they feathers or fingers?
ripping sweetly at my back
unfair forces try and borrow my breathe
for one last moment
one last chance
to live
in death

examining the cloth
through its layers
held to the sun
I see the contours of infinite faces
a simulated village where the passage of time
draws itself a thinner outline every moment