1/18/2014
Sometimes I am sure
I am destined to be weary
To shuffle against the carpet grain
To place two weighty palms on the mattress flat
Hoist one tired, aging form onto the slab of a waiting bed
Settle the covers against my lines
To shroud my short eternal rest
Stare at the ceiling, and the sleepy black below the ceiling
Until my eyelids tremble and collapse
Make a spectacle of themselves, until
At last my bones sink like a feather
Into a deep and wide-mouthed river
That meanders, as lazy as I am lachrymose.
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