Disorders of Personality
However it happened it
had to
on Candlemas, when
candles lit
the glass all down the
night avenue
where I for so long
dissolving sought
a passport photo sort
of identity to becalm
the sense of drift over
fist, some alarm;
the booth cracked to
take my image in.
Spit out fluency of
selfhood, when swallowing
purification of the
mother. Christ, a child
bled for ceremony so
soon after Christmas.
A wick’s spatter
approximates bloodletting.
All good is done
despite what else we do.
To calorie count the
evil, you’re over
your daily limit: as
each knows truly
in their bed and when
passing a hand through
the gap in his chest: the
air huffing in over out.
- new poem by Todd Swift
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