Shouting silently in the operating theatre,

I become multiple, as all pandemonium's angels

arose from one idea.

Later at Mount Pleasant, neither mountain nor,

I hover over slicing letters, parcels tumbling

between destinations.

I discern my own estranged members,

more than parings if less than limbs.

A dungeon's devices

are indistinguishable from early surgical tools.

I am coming home, I am leaving for good with no

expectation of rest.

At last the day is sorted. Whether growths

or creations, my chattels jostle in their sacks

and renounce me.

By Carrie Etter