O Bed-God of Sickness
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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