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Rough output from poetry workshop

I would not remember
the first time I severed
my presence, divided myself,
found an exit to
my early entrance,
betrayed myself
to save myself from
the memory of now.

I would not remember
the fist of Monday or
the homespun season
of rendering
or the hemming of time.

I could not recall
how I tossed the coins
and kept applying pressure
to the psychic wound
would not stop struggling against the bit,
kicking against the pricks
fingering the thorns

I would not remember
the open hand of Sunday
sewing a timeless watch of rest
or the loosening of the bands
or the wine poured into my wounds,
or the compression of time.

I remembered
only the cold scalpel of God
and the betrayal,
only the betrayal