I catch a glimpse of his winged heels, escapade to escapade,
scurrying, skipping the mind scape phantoms.
Hermes knows where I reside.
He has layovers in his wizardry circuit.
By the manner of how I'm tortured,
I could be one of his least favorite pit stops.
Since I was little, I've hung on window sills,
wandering the weather, wondering
if before my presence fleshed in mother,
might rain drops have been my occupational hazard.
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