“Now I am on the wing.”
I have migrated to another place
This neighborhood is not familiar. I
Walk safely down these streets without the face
That can be recognised, without the sly
And swaggering pretense of kindred heart
With which I wooed so desperately the bold
And myriad tenants of my life. Apart
At last and yet a part afire a-cold
Unfeathered but impassioned in the bone
Like dying Ivan I am on the wing
Articulate alight aloud alone.
Plucked clean and raw the skeleton will sing.
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