Overprinting
Some
naked thing,
Fumbling
towards dawn
With
a torch in its hand,
Sensations:
A
sharpness on the feet,
A
chill, goosebumps,
The
rough wood on its skin.
It
has no speech, not yet,
It
will remember nothing
Of
this, after words come,
Writing
over these first
Sensual
memories
That
will never be accessed again,
That
first there was something,
Then,
something more,
And
then: everything!
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