A little circle for myself to hold the fear,
a half moon hanging in a crisp blue night,
a cigarette for company, some clear
white wine and the soft delicious fright
that I am now alone, and yet content
that words may never mean just what they mean,
but to imagine I can infiltrate their intent
and measure out the moves of this machine—
such witchcraft in the casting of these spells—
should I drown or swim? I cannot choose,
for though I know our story all too well,
I still feel there may be something left to lose
by owning up to my accuser’s claims;
but they don’t know us, they only know our names.
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