The I in the soul patch slapped off my face

Spread scattered ego shuffling on the breeze

Over every emaciated place

Diminished by my exile’s treason’s ease.

.

The man in my mirror, the man in my dreams

Splits snicker-snack in the caesura’s claws,

Neatly striking my name from where I’ve been

And scribbling it back in between the pause.

.

Same sign, new meaning: a coincidence

Of arbitrary logos advertising

Two different products—and yet all sense

Points at the sameness the change tries disguising.

.

So on these stilted thoughts wobbling across

My portrait, I know I and he are me,

But marvel that a mask’s symbolic loss

Can warp my memories based on what I see.