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figurative poem as psychostasia

Or do we each draw a particular deaththe spider web trembling in the window.


How my cartouche will read: small yellow boat; bird; bird.
When I die what part of me will become light as truth, a single ostrich plume?
& the spider web trembling in the window: each spun cell a portal
something to live through.
Let me believe in it allinfinity, pain, & the things we see in mirrors
in dark rooms at night, the moon hermetic & shifting.
Will there be a reconfiguration? Will there be a papering over
of names?
At the weighing of the soul, the heart is placed on a balance & everything is
gleaned
in profile, our stories painted on reeds.
So much wrong.
Small yellow boat; bird; bird.
& behind the ibis-headed recorder, the Devourer.
Scribe, what did I mean to me?

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