is not the lack of sleep
it is the lack of dreams
that the folding of a word
into another where my feet touched the surface of water
was one thing, but now, this
sleeping in a familiar room
that lays arid to my body's night
waking, this difference
a stretch of eight hours, long enough
for your ears to forget they have been carved
like a question mark to receive
a complaint folded in the sleeve of a question
this is the lack of dreams
a colorless, odorless sleep
that solidifies facts you already know
there are no night-owls in a city populated
by little local birds, whose song announces morning
in groups; guiding the sun towards the middle of the sky
you remain sleeping as you move away
from a land distant, as last week's memory.
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