To The River I Am Led

There is a dress,
I slip inside
when comes the night;

unfeeling, and tight,
a struggle of zippers and ties,
a bulk
of doubt and six inch book.

To the river
in shawl, in weathered moccasins
and stale breath I am
led, like a monk, like a
sprout from the dirt towards the sun.

wet, without
skin to protect the little soul
bruises, brightly,
a stone beneath the body that
gives up.

stiffness with ease,
unusual home of clothe I am
for an assembly of memoirs;

me, and splaying me out so to
the parts that never came about.

I finish taking myself to the
water‘s edge,
and drown.

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