1470
5.9
9.i.24
edge of the weather
dream journal
where we are
and it’s under
us
wrecks of
things persisting
pick up
leave off
I belong here
there
in the dream
nothing’s mine
things are
lost without question
everywhere
no reason but
the nod
I feed the
dream from an open hand
knowing at
any time it may strike
pretending
always to be
first
have arrived
to claim,
invent
cast names
I defy the
local grammar
to make a way
of words
pretend
when it’s words
make do with us
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