The vessel of vernacular is entangled
In selves and bloody entrails of established mores:
History is your story, but you’ve left it to the others,
Filling in the blanks for the first time.
like kelp upon a foothold;
adrift, a prisoner of its own beginning.
The inroad of experience is tied and clotted.
The tango of the tonsil, nonetheless,
goes roundabout
like fluttering fish at the temporal end of lakes,
like granules in grains,
Like the absence in a window-pane.
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