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by Casey Haymes

His name written in the mud of the afterbathe. The washing place that precedes the day pacing his mind. His left side stretches a scar and above him hangs a basket of miscellaneous promotions. He has decisions to make before he clothes.

The sun above him, a fierce hunger digs. Paranoid of consequence but he should choose. A dish of haste salad with walnuts? Low-fat patience on the side?

He will grind in his teeth every detail of this day before swallowing sleep, because he might dream, and dreams might find him to wake as another. He’ll forget his shoes and remember another’s footsteps as his own. His old name will sound like sandpaper on soft wood. (What will he build?)

A name for every corner he turns: Approach. The blind man laughs with a dark throat and sings from memory the color of sunrise. I have nothing to hold! And he takes into mystery the taste of every passing second.

October 2004


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