Signature My signature as often signatures used to be my name There is nothing left of it now but an A a scribble And a line underneath – all that’s left of my surname A mountain, a ridge line towering above a cloud And from this horizon, at age 40 I look at the little boy Who once learnt to write his own name – The Limping Shadow Suppose I scatter crushed glass under my feet just to find out whether or not my shadow would be wounded too Would my shadow severed from my flesh carry on without me? Or would it take on the wound as the price to pay for being my shadow? Amnesia They cut your legs and arms and you don't bleed They throw you in the water to teach you to swim and you don't swim of course you drown so they empty the pool and when there is almost no water left finally you bleed I stole the backwash I left the seas and oceans everything salt, froth, and wat...