The Question


Will you lead me by my wrist when I am blind?

Will you drain the bowl of my cancer
when my body is spinning, unraveling from its spindle?

Of course not.
You will be pulling the crimson ribbon between your teeth,

unwrapping the gifts of the fair-haired, the red head.
You will be peeling the rind of some new fruit.

Take my wrist now.
Empty me now.

Later, I will have the gift of shadows.
I will have the wood’s invisible center.

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