And one day you’ll wake
long before the sun
with your ribs in tetanic contraction
lungs bruised from breathing.

and know you’ll spend the day
searching for the single wound that caused it all.  As if
breaking what’s happened
into hooded figures
was the answer.

You don’t want to know
that each black moment is made taut
in concert,
like the lugs on a drum skin.

You don’t want to know that tonight
dream-darkness will come again like winter
thick and lidded over the fields
and you’ll stand ice cold and mute
as the mice run away from your feet.

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Aside

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