Everything I said in the throes
of darkness was taken from me,

then turned into a cloth
of a different weave. Try

as I might, I could not return
the original color of my speech

or thought. I touched the out-
line of my knuckles and felt

with the tip of my tongue
the small gaps between

my teeth. I wondered how
others could be so sure

of themselves, how quickly
they could call up different

selves and still say I: one
wearing the coat of self-

righteous fury, another the robes
and gavel of a judge; a gallery

of hairy gods who, out of boredom,
paper the gates with fireflies.

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