They burned my book and it was
the best news. Here was sacrifice made up of
me and I
didn’t have to roll in ash or even mildly
smolder. I cannot begin to say how
happy it is
to be so reviled, as deep inside as any
devil, as underskin, as incidental
to hatred as gore to allegory—
with as much power as any thing that needs
destroying and yet savvy
enough to replace my intimate self
with text. Light me
and I hold my hands out into, warmed
by my own sleight. I am
not there. I am yet somewhere that is not there.

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