my fingers are of glass today. my face is as marble. a partial metamorphosis.
i live now as a man with a bird cage. the cage is locked and empty.
but the golden birdcage speaks to me. perhaps my soul is in that birdcage. i don't know.]i feel myself to be alive, but then, don't' all the dead think they yet live?
my chest is of slate. my legs of steel rods.
even so i don my prayer cap and shawl and pray. if that is what a god does, then that is what i am doing.
how do i exist if not in others?
