there is that fucking owl
again. my sleep is pinned
against the wall,
above my head.
she sings her song,
she plasters stories
over
the yawning mouth
of my window.
I won’t write, I won’t talk.
I don’t want milk and cookies.
I want to dive in the river
of dark forgetfulness…
I peel my night,
hour after hour,
until the white bones
of the dawn
outline the limits
of my nerves stretchability.
the owl, my friend,
is silenced....
the sounds of life
bleed
in the white of a day….
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