A famous prisoner egoises

Now a month detained
by there a lying faded dollar
upon whose dead face is a dead name.
The sallow crowing marshes boil
soon and near and this glasswork
of atrophied brick holds only me
if I should choose this one day timid.
Else by their wash-worn feet
and their dead faces fixed on me
would I bind this corner keep
to another corner and twist it forthwith!
I let them—I let them be—
I have no choice but to please them sell me
into the hands of wild bidders
and their princes and their marshes
twitching like something newborn
not yet free, not like me, may
molt and pupate still unfreed.

Revisionary notes: replace “crowing” with “crow-filled.”


~ by Jeremy on June 14, 2010.

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