Friday, January 17, 2014

nine of swords

my blankets always get twisted
into a pile, into a nest
i am tossing and flopping
curling up tight, grinding my teeth
i woke this morning with a sore back
and hips which is from starting
to run again and also from holding on
to some sorrow or other
a few nights ago i dreamed my face
was rotting, i couldn't stop tearing it apart
black pockets of dusty mold burst
into clouds and then my whole face just
disappeared; that feeling upon waking
of walking yourself through hazy
logic models touching to make sure
your cheeks intact, your skin
greasy but there

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