woke up from a poem
calling itself a dream.
syrah coated throat
the mind rests briefly
only to return to the wheel.
somewhere in between
i thought of a childhood friend-
porcelain skinned, red hair and
his subtle stutter caused by his
mother’s mania. laying awake
in the darkness transported
back to that house, our neighbourhood
knowing that time: is now
no more real than a fever dream.
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