Is it too late to sleep?
The day is breaking into streaks of letters. I’m reading this moment
Writing filed forgotten tunes
forged in words
but the purpose of text
to use the hands when
the fingers dance
to a deeper sound
in nature documented
The room is veiled by a faint light. The croacking of frogs on this river bank
conductive rain
on leaves hem stripped
seasons see now lightning feathers
signalling birds
to accurately scrape
the mystery read
when it happens
and no longer there
A sense of objects better said than written
Cuneiform-like rain drops on corrugated iron
From the middle east to the equator
semi-comets drizzle on dried clay
sentenced this way words forsake part of a world
but logged while the pause is stirred clock-wise
and orbitted by minstrels round the sun
now a radar may read lips
now a satellite upside down sleeps
the sky gravitates tonight and sinks into the soil
but so does a faced-up seed
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