Had I sentenced myself after
the last,

it would not turn Harry
any plumber (or more purple)

in the memory of the year.

Sock the name of Pegleg,
red on white, stitched

blue on white–
these stitches stitched.

The story is the story,
a rather circular book

with no stories.

Like clocking invisible oil
raising up

black, a viscous lie
from a holiday of bleak camouflage,

written Blank, because that is how
we were called.

It was simple then,

sitting barefoot and
jealous, about Harry.