this is the surface
where i lay my yarn,
is my workstation
woe, wonder i
limp out over sea burnt
wood, barren splintered before
sleep, before light dies after
night swells and the smoke
from a snuffed dream
is the stuff that
stings you awake.
yet you do not
stir. powdered, dressed
to our memory you
wilt and we slump and you
lay.
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