shrouded engines tick like dying clocks.
I wake up walking
on a rope between bedroom windows.
In a spectacular flash
I am falling through erratic air
surrounded by squirrels
who are also falling.
I fall asleep in anesthetic snow
behind a dump of discarded machines.
I haul myself up from dreams
to find books in the rubble.
The kisses of yesterday are far away.
Time is not kind to its prisoners.
I am glad to be filled with dirt
and among sinners.
Pines pointing and the deer in my blood
each icicle star.
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