This is an infertile night; words aren’t comforting.
Music resonates like cymbals over my head.
The creaking screen door meddles cold inside and
Writing
Is
Like
A
Seizure
At
Bay.
Oh if I could just amble, do some aligning,
Be a little marginal with living like a consonant
You can’t hear but is still there in sight,
And
Pray
This
Misplaced
Creature
Away.
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