I emerged from my door
and carried into my present
moment the quivering skeleton
of a whom this poem is for,
a what is trying to be accomplished.
We are the escape artists.
We point the way out.
We paint the way out with words,
words that could only
lead to freedom,
words that cannot
save themselves.
We who sit bandy-legged and
wonder it means, bandy-legged.
We waterways,
undertumble gold borne
freshwater ready or not
just follow me.
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