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Turn It Up.

Friday, November 6, 2015

The Fantasy series is refusing to return


This pillow is alive
With parasites of all things holy,
With confused ramblings of newborn planets,
And with gentle reminders to never sleep
In an unmade bed.

Its heart made of mustard seeds
Has ran out of nutrition:
Left behind is the hollow, fibrous, springing welcome
To the land of yet another day
And the calls of more foreign beds.

Strands of hair bind dreams to speech
And fingers to furniture.
Warm blooded goals give breath to this pillow
And it stays alive, with the memory
Of when you last made my bed.



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