To Blisters

Sleep was just another part of life in this neighborhood. This time of night/day souls were at rest. Nothing left to say that couldn’t be told to dreams.




Passive transgressive.


All insults to the inanimate ignored until noon under blue background, fading snores, cloudy hopes.

Impaled wishes. Lost. Darkness distilled. Dense, concentrated. Hooked to, into, movement of sun pressing itself to self as likeness is distorted. Turning away from light. Rays which change seed to bud. Lakes to desert. Skin to blisters.


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