How strange to have come all this way
on the path toward perfect ignorance
& to have stopped here, a man alone

in his hair shirt, incarnate among those
who scoff at fate & enjoy rough games
& luck they never comprehend.

How different to have been a goat—
surefooted, obstinate—but keeping
my mouth shut when undisturbed

or a cicada, sleeping away the years
& content to wait patiently for the chance
to pitch my wingsong into an electric blur.

Each morning, when I seek my daemon
in the mirror above the sink, a strawberry
of fresh blood drawn by a dull blade

clotting on my neck like a birthmark
I cannot help but venture a tentative smile
at the unmistakable humanity
minted like a coin upon my face.