Tuesday, November 8, 2016

The Body of the Lake Gives Soul to the Clouds

I am easily misled
By thinking about ourselves.
I see for the first time I
Am not ourselves, not tissues
Such as bone, such as the brain,
That cannot regenerate.
I am themselves, the language

Of the ghosts continually
Coursing through the hosts of us,
Flesh of ourselves to which I
Am tied when I am I, not
When I am the ghosts themselves,
Rising as wisps of fog rise
Off the surface of the lake.

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