The hours tumble down from a geode's seam.
Bits catch the light, some shapes edge
against the mind's tendrils, and experience
catches like rain in a cobble rift―
It is november, I can hear the tearing
of the crust, the gristbite below us
working in its sleep, and another afternoon
I am sprawled over mattress,
a stupor of color almost in reach.
It is hours after the planks have quit me.
I could not walk to the next room:
not when the crown makes me swarm.
And the body alone is a labyrinth,
room within room: root,
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