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Though there is a window on this wide blank wall, I can't see out of it,
for the silky smoke that holds the room in place is adamant in its original adaptation,
and as I swipe it away from my veiled face, it dances away and back again

like the nimble scent that wafts from the back of her neck,
a bouquet of begonias a mile away tempt me down the iron tracks

that quiver in anxiety under my bare feet


I sink into the bottom, beyond the waterbed, beneath the wreath, down below
where even the thundering clock by my broken bedside stand seems muted and distant,

willing me where ever I will go into a sleeping daydream

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