You are being born. Feels good.
Something enormous kisses you.
Its eye surveys your revolutions.
Relaxed in your new nudity.
you work your labyrinthine ears,
those perfect disciples,
registering all that hums, ticks.
O you encyclopedia you,
you do not know what I know,
how blank the cold world can grow.
But let the addendums come later.
I listen to the dust from the city
gather on the necks of the saints
at the hospital’s exits I exit.
And so I say to you yes you:
everyone’s a fugitive. Everyone.
by Spencer Reece
from The Clerk’s Tale