The Riddle

Water falls into the hallows of your skull,
hollowed in its lusts for flesh. I was not born
without a womb; I was not ripped out from your rib.
Unto the skinless night I forge the resurrected light
and trace the arc of dawn along the blade
of blinded sight. All my body is a thrust of knife
that struck against a seed I could not define, and cut away
the skein that tethered our lives in time and half a time.
The fruit speaks unto the peel what the tear had wrested
from the eye: The east runs backward from the west.

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