Perhaps it is
because lightning once tricked its blue fingers
along my spine, and called me
out of nothing
with a ghostly imperative. Perhaps it is
the itch of skin that is and is not
mine. A stranger to this life,
am learning to read the iconography
of green. Sleepless, I move
through shadows, a master of solitude
and little else but the moveless and wide dark
from which doubt wells.
Why do these borrowed eyes see, these
cold fingers touch
the nascent heads of supplicants reaching
toward sun-shot sky?
It can't be love—for what do I know of it?
And not memory,
for I have none. Why this desire then,
this trembling to hold and to name?
And what is this anxiety
that hums in the root of all things,
that I should be afraid
to lose what I do not yet comprehend?
[Steve Mueske, 'The Monster, On Living', from A Mnemonic for Desire]
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