3. I

In another life, I might have been a gypsy,

Dancing around the fire with hands like moth’s wings,

Fluttering closer and closer to the flame.


In a different life, I was a pigeon with one foot,

Hobbling, hated, along the streets of New York City.


I was once a sailor, a pilgrim, a black plague victim,

a watchmaker driven mad

By the endless golden hands that turned about all of those

Sweet round faces but never once reached for his own

Flesh in a tick of tender greeting.

Ungrateful fucks, he had said, as he polished the silver

And aligned the gears so his newest creation

Could be locked in time, forever on schedule.


My past lives,

They shutter upon my closed eyelids

Like a dream.


Strange that I don’t have the memory

Of any of my deaths.


2 thoughts on “3. I

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