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

unfeeling, and tight,
a struggle of zippers and ties,
swallowing
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.

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

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

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

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