1:30 AM is getting to be
the middle of my goddamn afternoon.
Seems I’ve spent more
pulseless moments pursing lips
and breathing softly
at this vacant hour than
any other, writing poems
about writing poems about writing poems
about writing poems about
writing poems --
And I’m not even a fucking poet.
I wish I could claim
insomnia as the peddler of my wake
but it’s more to do with shifting
siphoned, muddied thoughts of clay
away from the drawbridge
of my brain --
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