Mother

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My passage from the dream to the waking dream
slows towards home
to winter in the wharf of flesh
which breathes with people
who breed each other.through opening
in my life of which I know nothing
I blood sip
while the dreaming real I’s
features are moulded from a handful
of earth making hard to tell
which I is I
and what humility is that which will
not let me reveal the real? it was not
to gather knowledge of yet another
second hand I
that I came here but to learn
‘what I was’ and by learning, to learn
to grow.so pervasive is the human
scent now that my new I makes me homesick
for where I’ve not been.holding
the blood cord
from the dripping hold, out come
two tiny feet, the head follows, to fall
in the arms hungry hold
of the one who held me in
and whose being of pain and pleasure
I’ve taken-my mother who calls me
‘my baby’
but cannot say’who I am.’

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