ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS
Sequence: 4
THE READER
the pages I turn sketch
some fictitious heart made stranger
chapter by chapter
whatever had been intended
by whoever wrote it my voice reading
alters and if by chance
I turn two pages instead of one
my throat and tongue draw out some
sense despite all that troubled syntax
all the syllables forcing their way
past my lips and periods and commas
stuttering and fishhooking me forward
are bound to leave a few marks on me
that are true which I can disregard
the rest are fictions I can rely on more