1767
5.305
1.xi.24
Scylla, Charybdis
something between me
and sleep
for in early light
it’s happening again
come like the weather
strangers I’m among and one
I think it’s them
the pitchforks, the torches
barn alight
blear bomb fall
often as if the writing might
death randomly and reasoned
building the up against wall
all sing
often for the truth as such
who knows where
we have met the dark
to call the colours on
make that our bright to wake
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