“and the night is coming on,

which has no hope of dawn”

–Anna Akhmatova


I lost myself

out of myself


like a sleeve

slips over skin,


a new coat

to hide within.


One is more

than one’s











I lost myself

in a storm,


my broken arms

flailing the wind


with a whirlygig’s

frantic clacking.


I lost myself

again, too often,


too easily—

donning disguises:


losing myself

out of myself


without myself—

broken, alone.


(March 30, 2018)

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