Early Morning

Outlines in memory foam lie

with tales of

nothing in common, no

communal tacks of occupation

to bridge the gaps between

one’s hatred of bouncing balls

or his miscomprehension of a muse—

traveling flames set fire

to the stability of solitude’s sanctuary;

coast by coast

they’re split down the middle

of history rounded out by

earth and water

the beating blood of birth—

and for all that

it’s we, it’s we, it’s we and

“Your child, your decision”

that hangs a rope about them.

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