Why is night your terrain? Your throat
of stars, each

                            a tiny scream of what
              you cannot

                            recall. Your throne

of starved light and the distance,
in darkness, it has

              no choice but

to travel. The line, when there is
                            a line, between dream

and memory: eyes looking up

from a slung-open
casket. A line,

People on couch
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