restless after a bout of strange dreams drinking hot chocolate reading poetry by a writer acclaiming sweet light of early mornings I want to call him on the phone let the poet know I know but don't have his number and who knows if he would answer having been dead for decades a mouse scuttles across the floor (we avoid eye contact) the garbos wake the street disposing of all I cannot fathom
{ 2022 04 08 }
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