Identity

Untitled
By Graham Stickles
Formatted by me

He can only think

in vague connections--Plastered words

and thoughtful imperfections,

mental slivers of broken-mirror reflections,

puzzle pieces left on the floor.

He dies on a daily basis a

nd wakes to many different faces

 in strangely new familiar places—

"hello morning, it's me?"

His mind, a colander of dented silver

His memories, like pasta water rush down the drain

(a murky river) headed to some foreign sea.

Identity isn't for the crazy.

 Just hold on to whatever sturdy objects are nearby

and watch with absurd amusement

as the flood washes all your sins

and virtues

from you and leaves you there to dry.

New and free. Empty but alive.

The end