::: Insight :::

We alone intimate
in the hour of the ox
how the hands
must not cower
before the sharp
edge of the Id,
its strict calligraphy
of severances.
We must think
solely of the stroke,
the turning
swallow cut
guided inward
until our cancer,
our love
is apparent
as an infant,
whose
backwards gaze
grants us
some surrender.

Written by: ~ Lawrence Sumulong

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