Sleep is a place of unlinked fenceposts;
the old message unread, remembered,
dragged by ankle
over wild shines
and left
unopened
between
unmeeting things.
Hands drift
toward doors there,
Traverse and
unfold,
and give noise
in their unfolding
against
thresholds,
Begging after answer
From rooms behind
strewn with blanket
and cornhusk
and panic.
How to be still,
in those rooms.
How to wait;
How to outlast
ceilings
until the embered stars
alight upon them.
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