I walk
from alarming slumber
with a bang on the dresser
from a caffeine fix after
a morning’s fuck, or love; was it love?
from a televisual hum
from the Sunday’s forecast—blue
overture from floor to ceiling and beyond
from cups filled with
evening’s resin
from oyster palaces of
sheer vexation
from a missed calculation
from a hundred books
splayed to where I veer, stray
from an embryo spilled
from awkward family figures
not at home in the skin
from an almightly principle
from prayer and flagellation
from two palms open on
a Formica table
from a stranger in turn
from a habit, crust
from a backward look
from “infinite love”
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