around the gear-stuck calendars
watching webs tear
in the fabric of being
watching waiting rooms turn
into pockets of pocket treasures
and the desks of interplanetary study
turn to gems of dreams
feathers of flocks that were
supposed to happen here
erupting into twilight cones
squawks entering ethereal formation
among the chimneys of the actual life
chugging and wheezing with resin'd ribs
ready to be pecked by their descent
I give to the yawning gulf
my blood's devotion
and the ripped eyes of the night
that calls me home.
Blades of green that cross a microscope
get caught in my spokes
my pillow is a germ of ink
that blossomed into cotton
and flies over a map of steel.
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