the unmade bed, chaotic, peaceful, a remnant of a slower time
hurried as usual, conclusions reached before beginnings. looks
like you sleep on your side, a few lucid missteps in that fold

some leaves on the sidewalk, blown into a pile, no rake in sight
is this the order of things to come, or maybe what has already been?
there's no here in my restlessness or now in my slumber, only whys
overexposed pinpoints of light burning, disappearing, laughing so

symptoms of who


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