wake up and fused to a dream, knit, kept, crept upon like grazing weed-grass in tropical winter; un-before, not unlike the now, my body to yours or ours, the shoelace race to home (tucked right under, then over, then cover your past quick like a trap door with laughs packed neatly inside); i recall those thoughts i had when there was no possibility of the present where i now live, how i hung those things i hang this morning over coffee steam and counters wet from dishes, flowers flipping hair in the living room, swimming on the dark grain of our breakfast table; when i fall asleep my chest constellates the constellations and, like the astronauts, carves at the sky to make it manageable, more friendly, more tumbled, matte at its edges, not un-touched by me

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