There is no memory to
twice-loop round the wrist
of the ego Stranded
in the quicksand of a new
locus.
No image to permis a
resentment cry Scream
shout rejoicing
flutter dance or flourishing
Here
Which spirit might enfigure?
in this space it has never stepped.
before the exposed ego forms
a colorless shade of unknown;
self-adorned.
It is the chameleon within
who’s scales are never
dissuaded to display
the inner landscape-
her sheathing heather.
It takes quiet knowing
to stand upon open, unfamiliar stone:
filled with memories not of oneself,
yet stilled to greet a chromed, comforting
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