one rare morning i awake and in some not small part of me im shook by a feeling of grace a feeling of grace rain may patter the wind may hiss but it s not so much forgetting relics that clung to me loose their grip they loose their grip and we re all composed of some old beliefs you can t make little cuts until you feel clean of your memories and if you ever feel when you re looking back it would make you sick to get past the past just breathe quick and cough til you fog up the glass you can smooth the wood sand down the burl but to a certain extent our history is irrevocable irrevocable after all this hand wringing there s still shifts in my breast my old body new body a cognate misleading at best and if you ever feel when you re looking back it would make you sick to get past the past just breathe quick until you fog up the glass til you fog up the glass