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Coyote

COYOTE

 

Standing motionless in the hours

whispered before dawn, you are

looking at yourself except you don't

look like you; you are looking at

yourself except what you see is

strange, ceremonious, sacrament;

you are looking at yourself except

you're not because the thing doing

the looking is no longer itself, is

changed in the act of seeing, is

changed into the thing seen, is itself

seen, then forgotten, remembered

later on as something foreign to itself,

like amber carrying with it the memory

of a tree to which it bears

no resemblance, yet somehow still

contains.

 

 

This poem was originally featured in SOFTBLOW.