The infection I cannot forego
The foreigner that came
To be a patriot. The La Fayette in me
Who looks every inch as conflicted
As a melee, and as disapproved, as a glass of moonshine,
And still I run the marathon of life
Like there are eagle wings at the end and that blind man
Who worships with his heart,
A woman who can bake just about anything,
Can only be a fool in faith, of that strange corridor
That stares at you from afar and narrows from the sides.
And how beautiful is claustrophilia,
Of knowing that the heart has
An ocular disease and all that you are,
Is just a presence to another, of that ill-defined feeling
Of liking a space that drifts nearer and nearer
Until you are perfectly incapacitated
Of uttering just about anything.
And in that dumbing tradition,
We prosper to what, touch reconciles
And taste defines.


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