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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Identity Unknown

What a strange thing
not to know who you are.
Whether you are purity
or the shout of your intestines.
I think I am snow
added one by one
high above any horizon,
to fall sometime
into crevices below.
Carrying the face of my catastrophe,
with one true love
clutched inside
asking,
was it worse to be born
or to have never died.
Or have a soul,
or be in love?

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