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I feel like I’m plummeting
across the night
(all things considered,
the night is vertical
and governed by gravity)
from end to end,
starting at twilight,
the first breaths of evening
when the sky is a palette
of blue fading into black,
and down on through
the hours of midnight
(because something with such
a majestic name must last
way longer than a moment;
I don’t care what the clock says)
when stars are translucent
and birds are vigilant,
and further on, I do
a slow motion back flip in the air
at the darkest patch of time
so gnarled and potent
only ghosts can walk in it
and I grab at their voices
and the rootless winged seeds
strewn on the clouds,
and I come out on the other side
where the cardboard roof of sleep
tears at dawn
to let the other colors in

and sometimes, in that journey
I’d wake up, mid-fall
(if those faint brush strokes
of consciousness can be called that),
and this world would feel
a much more disconnected illusion
than the other
.

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