Mystical moist night air
points me to the cavern
on the green hill
under the shadow of the birch tree.

Hearing myself speak,
I turn to wrestle the Jabbok
on a river of self penance and blame.

You touch my hip and I quake.

You spit in my eye and I see

You burn my lips with coal and I taste.

You clasp my head and I hear.

Just then when the earth spun, you left me here –
on this dewy wet street sweet spot grass

and I cry at having been maimed by my identity.

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