THE RED HEART
THE MAN WHOSE PATH WAS ON FIRE
James
Reaney
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THE MAN WHOSE PATH WAS ON FIRE
II
Void as a used
bus ticket. Nothing
to be done. My hands,
I imagine, limp, clotted
with blood.
There was a set of
gestures. I had
learned them. They seemed
to make me human. Even at that
I was a puppet.
It was as if one morning,
I woke up among assassins.
My neighbours, whom I trusted
(they had been so kind to me)
seduced me while I slept.
In my passion to possess
a decent gratitude,
I am often merely stupid. As a consequence,
suspicion, at intervals
fills me like a balloon of flesh.
It is no longer safe
to approach the mirror. My tongue
has become
a flag, and grows redder by the hour
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