It came to me sunday as I was climbing the stairs, something I had long forgotten, something I had long sought, something I had long lost, a voice, a voice to yawn open a door long closed, to show me just a sliver of what is mine, and Arcadia, a voice that in the channel of blood that spit me out was left behind—how, how have I forgotten thee? With the depth of summer thunder and the softness of autumn rain. Upon my face lifting up. How, how have I lost thee?—, a voice I was born to renown, and there it came to me, lovely and painful, from out of my legs, I bent over, I fell the hundred steps down, and it came more, pouring down my thighs, blood and more, for a pool a stain that spoke me, and the truth.
in parentheses 