I live like a hermit on the outskirts of my image,
suppose the ghosts around me are choices
the years diminished, but praise the road
I have astonished. Naked, with huge
spectacles, my best-kept secrets tell what
they know, as they polish my absurdity
trophies. Unpleasant as these revelations
may be, people will come over to touch me.

I suppose you could say
my schoolteacher, Lydia Shchevchenko,

twenty-five times

to counteract the effects of my childhood
fumes.

Across her peasant blouse
the taut forest a furious blizzard stitched
lulled me into thinking

two invisible cuckoos perched in the pines.
I remember being
a path which took me away.

Another version of these facts
slapped me.

From then on I woke up early and skipped

down the hall that hadn't been built
in recognition of its lasting impression
on me.

There I was, only a few feet from
my head

mentioning an incident

would be willing to join our group
during recess.

I was distressed to find my swing
spellbound in shorts.

We all took our places
a few years later.

This was on a Monday.

1928 called me a post and wanted me to run
the reluctant earth apparatus at home completely
unfamiliar with myself. Everyone was slinging
villages. The situation was widespread and rare.
I began to reconsider my relationship with February.
Shaky Petrovsky wasn't behind it, neither. My family
leaned heavily on something we'd lived in since
childhood. My father had a wide circle bypass him.
Mother ran off with the analogy. I decided to accept
that I'd changed my mind on one occasion I sent
somewhere as soon as I didn't care I didn't have
much experience thinking twice on a Sunday. Soon
I was on a train that went straight to my suitcase.
In the Bureau of Notorious Reputations, my foreboding
found it easy to work. People seemed to like me
far from it. Whenever someone ran up against a brick
wall, I was sprinkled around the idea. Roots I'd grown
backward reached my absence. I had been sent to
take my place. He was a fairly mild-mannered person
with an ax.

Someone hung tears in the office, possibly
to prove I was a sympathetic character.

The next day was demolished.
The eliminated swept up.

Though time was gathering evidence against me,
my doubt submitted a lengthy testimony,

my last words executing all accusations.
Meanwhile, others were conferring

about the quality of my work, the
appetite for flesh growing in their midst.

My every step is measured,
then surgically removed.
Nothing fits its own frame
on the wall a shaft of sunlight
spears inches from my crown.
The secretary, riddled
            with glances, drops her eyes
and my attention is volcanic
                ash pouring over her.

I can't decide if I want
           a red denunciation
or a blue redemption
pen, what form to take.
This may be a good place
to offer up confession.
That one thought
consoles.