Monday, November 14, 2016


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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