on the day of the feast
nothing is immaculate
but this sense
that something will be
conceived like a creation
such as a poem or a song
or a life is comforting
and worried that this
might not be so
I am struck
by the intesity
of such doubts
foolishness
(I leave you nothing
but the wake)
instinct
(here we go again)
motive
(I see you standing there
ready for the take)
and all that will become
what they refer to as me
will become the reference
in itself
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