Torn Soul Approach

You, pairing socks from a basket of white socks; who would think to touch you? Still, though less than now, a brilliance shadows your wishes, becomes your eye from vacant windows, vies perhaps for spots of your grizzled time, slips quick verses beneath your wrists in ways you can’t but pretend to understand. Oh yes you, in Swedish Born boots and special sweaters, feel slowly, striding slowly down those wax-winged halls, those same black boots meeting the black glossy floor, the music those shoes makes moving through your knees, yours alone, your broken knees; and to hear in the morning such smaller, quicker steps behind you, you faux Ukrainian in your skin of post-diseased lugubriousness, and in the afternoons nothing, nothing—to remember, in moments of secluded insolence, who you claim you were to be, and have thought yourself into believing you are being, is what is left to deepen this hour’s substance. As though, after this, you were choosing still, or still might be chosen.