eight-o-three and
thirty three seconds,
and all we have are maybe dreams
that carry heavy weights
on unstable ground,
a conscious riddle with
many many no answers,
and they howl
through tight airless tunnels,
bringing rain,
for you to listen
and make, by
sculpting clay that never hardens
in the humid night air,
lying still in your bed,
until
a noticeable twitch/turn/pleasure/ecstasy,
bites into your lip
pink and soft,
asleep
and
dreaming.
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