Stranger in the Night
Edward Mycue
There is a stranger within me, an intruder who is not me, and is a part of me. We co-exist. Yet he habitates as I exist.  He swallows, and I drink, who’ll die when I die, or so I think? My hair was severely brushed and my damp face looked pink, painted-over and blotched.

I had a young, firm face then, as I would have been wide-eyed as if waiting to catch-it, whatever “it” was, to catch-it and take it apart to understand what the virus "life" was presenting to me, me who couldn’t then have seen myself or my kind as a virus swarming out of our planet attempting to  conquer and perhaps colonize stars.
Last week, early, I sat at a window looking at the large, heavy cones attacked by huge awkward crows disturbing all other life on that tree.

Recalling Grammy Delehant warning against following the crows before you die, the way rodents do who  pick-up the crows’ leavings.

I now see  I have become a kind of crow, and even though only part of a system, I begin to be conscious with a bad conscience.

Now resting-time. But yet I seek beyond twisting, continuing, turning then back forward so here remains. not a beginning for what was here again returns and out there became green here.

My atlas spoke other climes since there wasn’t a painted world.

[No thought of looking back. Further, higher I traveled turning then back forward. This road remained there, and I think the world of it. Or why paint this hero range? Here then, there, remains, what I gave my heart to.]

First published: May, 2014
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