even
a fraction of
your
own gifts, allowed
for even a scrap
of their
magnititude and
chose to shroud
yourself
in these gifts
like
a cloak, every-
thing
about your place
in
history would be
revision,
every last
movement
and gesture,
from
the fingertips on
the
shoulder to the
tender,
erotic crimes
of
your youth and
even
those just after
would
be allowed
to
change and open
like
a flower that while
wilted
from lack of use,
is
not yet dead.
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