Why is night your terrain? Your throat
of stars, each
a tiny scream of what
you cannot
you cannot
recall. Your throne
of starved light and the distance,
in darkness, it has
in darkness, it has
no choice but
to travel. The line, when there is
a line, between dream
a line, between dream
and memory: eyes looking up
from a slung-open
casket. A line,
casket. A line,
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