Section 2 ~ Issue 22bJohn Fitzgerald
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JOHN FITZGERALD                                            

Descended of Thieves


                                                           Part One 

A 221fter just a few hours, I’m by myself.

The one who made me called it a day.

I’ve forgotten the names of things,

and yet, am wondering what to wear.


Was it yesterday that I went mad?

It’s the smell of knowledge beckoning

from every fork, and bend.

That scent which marks my boundary.


Had it not flown here to breach me, well….

Hello! Is someone there to help?

Only dark responds:

I am.

Then I went back inside my head

and believed it must have been a dream,

not some lovesick, restless flight

where every sound I hear is music.


On my line, I reeled a hole that opened,

blurting out a butterfly.

When it established an orbit around me, I swatted.

Shot off my mouth like a star into night.


I woke to a loud knocking.

Opened the door - it was the wind.

Are you the clay, the dust, the ash?

I answer, ‘that’s what I fear.’


Then freeze, it says,

or I’ll blow you away.

The fire is there to back him up.

They warn the tree to get ready -


we caught him with the sun in his eyes,

and the moth-wing slime of light on his hands   

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