sleep inertia, coupled with
mechanical phosphenes
between the thin mattress
and the down comforter
on my back, two-thirty.
watching the changes,
the prisoner’s cinema
heinrich klüver reckoned
four types of things, we
all of us, see: lattices,
cobwebs, tunnels, and spirals.
I am awake, but only just
and the honestly cold night
comes in through the window
from the city, glowing, outside
there are no gaps in this
admixture – it has slowly
become, as a nest or riverbed,
our great concatenation
we are all connected by:
these several layers of stone
& when we are alone,
in darkness not afforded here
even then, we are.
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