Follicle

He still freely discards his DNA;
An exhalation of spit here, a drop
Of sweat there, a fingernail into
A public bin, an odd follicle
Ripped from him during rougher
Pastimes. He wonders sometimes
If the hedgerows where he used
To run have by now sprouted some
Plant duplicate of him by the side
Of the meandering road that glower
At passing cars and runners, and
Asks if the past might have generated
Other images of him in flesh and bone
Disguise.

R 11/10/2023, 19:51