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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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Chamber-slops of disheartened rain,
and a crooked slit in the curtains exposing a too-bright night sky- jaundiced, yellow-violet, bleary with cold and ice and dripdripdrip sluicing the air between my window and a valiant street-light; and a rumbling vibration of frigid bluster in the molecules of glass making the window tremble. There is something not-quite-right about the splodges of iciness splatting on the window-frame and the path; there is something weird about the sucked-out purple-yellow sky and, last night, I raved silently in my sleep; I raved on and on, typing messages to you- and there was something not-quite-natural about my bruised-yellow panic as I mumbled and stumbled feverishly in my searching dream, my dream-self scanning for you, like a sulfur search-light scraping the spray-painted sky, pushing the peering beam against the belly of the greenish sky like an awful wound; pushing into the tender organs of a bloated sky bulging like a poisoned pup. Now you are in the sky; now you are in my organs. The lazy sound of you is in the careless rain. I can hear the branded leaves of the cherry tree shivering goose-bumps in the wet. You are in the yellow sound of that, too. You are on this page. Your flesh has been made word. My flesh is thumb-marked with purple-yellow bruises. My self has the eyes stubbed out of its newspaper clippings. I am on your wall.
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