every time i die, word by word, breaking through
the stanzas, i reveal my anointed embarrassment
resting on the paper catafalque. every little slip,
every scratch and bruise, every fleeting glimpse
caught when least expected, every yes and no
carefully extracted from the rattle of my old
smith-corona lies in front of you. but remember,
you do not read my journal, so stop asking if this
or that really happened. would you ask stephen king
if he killed all these people?
hidden pilcrow 