Sunday, March 25, 2012


To slip into another voice, over your face a mask,
over your arms the greaves of someone’s gestures
not your own, their gloves covering your hands . . .
a lovely escape from the curious prison
you carry inside your mind – call it “being,”
“life,’’ “the human condition,” whatever is
the wrong word for our wretchedness
(there is no right word, writer).


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