I am not at home.
How white my bed sheets are.
My small bed seeps dreams,
The moon is bare in trees,
It has no face or mouth;
Nor the schoolroom clock,
Parts, bits, cogs.
Departures, departures, the track
Of time empties white into a distance
Tap. Tap. Tap. I find myself waiting.
I am a pulse, a rehearsal attends me
Like a nurse; she is flatness, a dead socket.
I sit at my desk with cold angels, I saw
Their death in a holy book.
As I read, it emptied itself of its promise.
I remember the minute when I knew for sure,
I could see the dangers coming for me, I saw
My world in it— small, mean and black.
Every word hooked to every other word
Like swarms of fish, swaddled in a cold sea.
I was not ready. I thought I could deny the
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