I see myself by the river, crossing
The current runs north, rushing
against my feet, swelling
from standing in the center
of the madding crowd, wearing
yellow and red, crying
against each other
“I don’t know my own position,” Lacaba saying
while I, standing
the fleshes are being
torn away: “Do they?”
asked one voice, laughing
then poofs to thin air
while I find myself
still in the center, echoing
“I don’t know my own position”