I wait for the better self
to beat through the cliche
self, which sits on the blind
self who only sees herself.
You are so close.
I sense that you
hear her wet wing
drawing from its slipper.
How is it being
a witness to and the thing
itself? How is it she
and I trade darknesses?
I don't know.
But I'm better here
than anywhere else and try
not to look back
at the husk sitting in my chair,
legs propped up, ideas
not worth mentioning
thick as thieves.
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