Stroke

In this mist are vague contours of people and shrouds of them walking towards me and away like wind that wanders in mist or a rain that comes in walking on the road ,as gusts of a wind, as people and daughters about, people and mine from a womb and white robed figures in long tails hanging from their necks.

My mind recognizes sovereignty of the foot, functioning on own.The fly does not walk its texture nor does the song set it tapping ,a ghost foot declaring rebellion,preferring to join them in a mist, as if parts are wholes themselves.

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