O Bed-God of Sickness

Khaty Xiong

the bed-ripe heart & brain you harbor

has no sad theories — no bedtime stories left

I hold the scriptures in the waning light

& the view of your bed-body bleeds small

     & you insist the roaming human has no limits —

whose error & insect approving — then our language

unassailing — fleshed & assuaged!

     This automated heirloom & torpor…

the morning sun a missing thing —

the night we can never fully come out of

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