The Script

The old man rehearsing my flesh broke my legs to bring me down; under the shower, in the pin-hot rain, my knees thumped porcelain, twin thrown logs; I slumped downhill to dream, undone, darkly remembering the flesh I am, from father and mother, by their first cell, the human river knotted to a child, untied a lifetime to that dying man swelling the river’s run as he forgets back to the water the part he knows too well. After child and before old man, halfway from river to river, I am my middleman and must learn my script that’s written in each cell, draining myself through my design, that, coming at end to my untie, I have performed entirely.

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