In Wallingford

Noel writes:

I’ve made a dancing thing with no arms but two beautiful legs.
It lives inside of me, but I wear it like a coat, keeping me in darkness.
Formless, faceless, stacked and grown over years like so much manure,
A throbbing clot in the arteries of my head and my heart.
It stage whispers that I’m both what matters and unworthy.
I gave it legs to run.

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