I know I wrote these, but

I can’t recognize myself in these words.

I struggle, grasping for patterns I’m not sure are there.

This is my handwriting, but it suddenly seems

I don’t really know my own mind,

thoughts galloping wildly in different directions,

scattered like newly sheared sheep, their fleecy past

discarded in heavy piles and bags by the door.

From where I stand,

in the murky, shifting light of the barn,

I catch the repetitive thump of hooves racing across the field as they try to

distance themselves from their loss.


I’m eating ice cream,

a reward for a job well done,

and the creamy sweetness feels out of place here,

like the appearance of a past lover out of nowhere in a dream,

a remnant of some other life suddenly thrown into sharp focus,

meaning swirling in and out of view,

like wisps of fleece around the dusty barn floor.


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