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.