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Stockholm Syndrome


I stand accused of misdemeanours: an overactive
desire to hold you, captive,

of knowing where the berries are in surfeit,
of being their itching herald,

becoming the hustle's seldom one -
look out Broadway! I’m all surface! -

of knowing the brisking end of the start
of something (vertraue mir, sour world)

need not be the beginning of its end.
For see it written here on pretty paper:

the hostage may in time accept the taker.
Have you seen my light, welcomed one,

have we changed? And my especial art
is to capture some forever from mere fond.

Sometimes you step out for that missing stair
and find it’s there.