18: Identity

What lunatic spends nights
writing poems to people who
exist only in imagination?
Not that they are not real- –
the people are, like Blake’s angels,
very much of flesh and blood – –
conglomerations of desires
of what he wished to say
but could not say – – then
swirled with all other’s words
he’s wound within his day,
‘til he’s howling at the moon:
A song I sing out of tune
to create my me and you

(from a work in progress: “Arcana,” November 14, 2013)

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